


pas de deux

by intertwingular



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Damn, F/F, Gen, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, also a lot of references to the seven types of love, also featuring: a lot of french words, and lilia wears a lot of yellow, and the pas de deux is iconic, but he still skates, dancer yuuri, esPECIALLY the bluebird one from sleeping beauty, i couldn't think of any other pair dance, i finally get to use my eleven years of ballet for something, i gave mila a gal pal, ignore the stereotypical title ok, long haired yuuri, sappy gay pining, the world needs more lesbians, these boys are gay enough for the whole male community, viktor's eyes cant handle it, we now need an angst tag, we're in for a long one, you read that right, yuri has a foul mouth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8551117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intertwingular/pseuds/intertwingular
Summary: n. an intricate relationship; a dance for two
  or, in which yuuri, premier dansuer and four time usa international ballet competition gold medalist, ends up teaching yurio ballet, and viktor is just the slightest bit smitten.





	1. prelude: a development in c

**Author's Note:**

> _but ren,_ you say. _you have, literally seven million unfinished pieces! why are you starting yet another?_ good question. 
> 
> look to the notes at the bottom for terminology definition! 
> 
> song for the chapter: [fjarlægur](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eFqy56mmAhc), by oskar schuster
> 
> expect updates once to twice a month. if i'm lucky, there might be three a month.

_( Prelude: A short piece originally preceded by a more substantial work, also an orchestral introduction to opera, however not lengthy enough to be considered an overture._

_Development: Where the musical themes and melodies are developed, written in sonata form. )_

* * *

Viktor is simultaneously amused and terrified of Lilia Baranovskaya. He’s not as scared as Yakov is, though. Any skater who trains under Yakov knows of his long-lasting terror in regards to his ex-wife, and watching the normally gruff and coarse man bend and break under every sharp command that leaves the formidable woman’s pursed lips is _fantastically_ amusing.

“I, however will not directly be training you. Not until my student has made _certain_ that you will not be a waste of time.” Lilia tosses Yakov a disdainful look over her shoulder, and pulls her phone from her coat pocket. “Yakov has assured me that you will not be a waste of my time, but _I_ will judge that for myself.” The sound of Lilia’s long, lacquered nails clicking against the screen of her phone fills the quiet rink, soft against the sound of skate blades scraping against fresh ice.

 “Who the fuck is your student?” Yuri’s voice is impatient, and he crosses his arms, tossing his head impatiently, while a quick foot taps a fast beat against the rink floors.

Lilia slowly pockets her phone, raising an impeccably plucked eyebrow. “Why must you know? You will meet him when he gets here. For now, get back onto the ice. The godforsaken traffic in St. Petersburg is ridiculous at this hour.”

She clacks away, Yakov in tow, and Viktor looks back to Yuri. The younger man has a furious look on his face, cheeks slowly turning red. He laughs, patting the small blonde on his back. “Well, it looks like you’ll be having fun!”

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Yuri spits, stalking off, back to the rink. By the time he disappears, Viktor can hear Mila’s bell-like laughter, accompanying Yuri’s cat-like screeching.

Very, very fun indeed.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri _hates_ St. Petersburg traffic. The Metro was delayed, so he’d decided to take a taxi - but, of course, _rush hour,_ and now, Yuuri is frantically clicking away at his phone, trying _not_ to piss Lilia off.

 **Lilia:** Where are you? You are almost ten minutes late.

 **Yuuri:** I’m so sorry! Traffic is being difficult.

 **Lilia:** Fine. How much longer?

Pausing to look up from his phone, Yuuri leans over, tapping the driver on the shoulder. “Sir, do you know how much longer?”

The driver looks at Yuuri, then back at the road. “Five minutes, maximum.”

“Thank you.”

 **Yuuri:** Driver says five minutes.

 **Lilia:** Be in your backup flats when you get in. I want you to start working with this child immediately.

Yuuri leans back into the seat of the taxi cab, setting down his phone. Lilia is a terrifying whirlwind of a woman, but she’s basically best _prima_ out there, so Yuuri will learn what he can from her - even if it means having to blunder his way through trying to teach a figure skater how to dance ballet.

 

* * *

 

Viktor trails after Yakov and Yuri, as they all follow behind Lilia. She’s leading them all to the main entrance, where her mysterious student apparently is. Her yellow coat fans out behind her like a peacock’s plumage, and Viktor can’t help but wonder, briefly, if her student has the same taste in lemon yellow coats as Lilia does. For as long as Viktor has known Lilia - which has been a _terribly_ long time - she’s always been wearing a lemon yellow coat. Not the same one, just...the same color.

“This is Yuuri Katsuki.” They come to a stop, as Lilia gestures a young man over. He’s not wearing a lemon yellow jacket - and Viktor _is_ glad for that. His eyes could only take so much vibrance at once - but instead a modest brown coat with what looks to be several ginormous pockets on it. A black scarf is wrapped around his neck, and tucked neatly into the collar of the coat. “Four time gold medallist at the USA International Ballet Competition, and currently training to be _premier danseur_ with the Bolshoi Ballet. He will be your instructor for now, Yuri.”

Yuuri gives a short, small bow, a small smile stretching across his lips ever-so-slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His decidedly Japanese accent gives a softer sound to the normally harsh Russian words, and Viktor raises an eyebrow. He likes the way Yuuri manages to make Russian sound soft and rounded, as opposed to the jagged edges the language is often credited to have. It’s pleasant and easy on the ears.

“No,” Yuri says. “Oh _no._ There can’t be two fucking Yuri’s here. Not at all.” He sounds furious - and child-like - and Viktor decides _now_ would be the best time to jump in.

“Ah,” he lilts, teasingly. “But there’s a simple solution to that! You,” Viktor points a finger in Yuri’s direction, and the blond somehow scowls deeper, eyes burning into Viktor’s head, “Yuri Plisetsky, will be _Yurio,_ and Yuuri Katsuki can be Yuuri. Problem solved!” He claps his hands together, completely ignoring the way Yurio begins to fume once more.

“ _Why the fuck do I have to be Yurio? I was here first, damn it!”_

Viktor grins once more, as surrounding skaters coming from their breaks peek out - whether in fear, interest, or something else, Viktor doesn’t know. Yurio _is,_ however, infamous for his screaming rants. - and among them is Mila, who catches his eye, and coughs a laugh into her hand.

Yurio still hears it, however.

**_"MILA!”_ **

Mila grins sheepishly at Viktor, before mouthing a goodbye, as she drags Yuliya away with her.

“Well,” Viktor continues, turning back to Yurio. “If you think about it, Yuuri _was_ here before you, Yurio. He’s older, after all.”

Yurio spits. “Fuck you. Don’t call me that.” He glares balefully at Yuuri, who seems taken aback - and slightly frightened for a split second. “I’m getting back on the ice.” And he stomps away.

Yuuri smooths down a flyaway strand of hair while he watches Yurio storming off, and Viktor can hear his gusty sigh from where he stands. The young man looks tired and perplexed.

“He’ll warm up to you,” Viktor says, walking up to him. “Viktor Nikiforov.”

Yuuri smiles, wider this time. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nikiforov. I’m Yuuri Katsuki.” He pauses. “Wait but, uh, you already knew that.”

Viktor smiles. “Call me Viktor. It’s only fair, of course. I did already call you Yuuri.”

“Nice to meet you, Viktor. Am I allowed to watch Yurio’s short program?”

“Of course! Come, the rink is this way.”

 

* * *

 

Yurio is a beautiful skater. In an extremely technical sense, anyways. He moves with the fluidity and careful grace that experience figure skaters have, and from the looks of it, he rarely messes up, and even if he does, at this point, they’re small mistakes. Stepping out a millisecond early on the Biellmann spin, nearly catching the tip of his blade on the ice while doing a step sequence - they’re all tiny things, but Yuuri quickly realizes _why_ Yakov had asked Lilia to come in.

Certainly, Yurio makes technical mistakes that would get him immediately whacked with a ruler in a ballet class or company, but he’s a figure skater, not a _danseur._ The biggest thing is the total lack of emotion. This dance, routine, short skate - _whatever -_ is devoid of any feelings. Maybe frustration is there, but the routine is _On Love: Agape. Agape_ is an innocent, unconditional love. It’s gentle, like a lullaby on a moonless night. Yurio’s interpretation holds no _Agape,_ only some barely leashed frustration, and a _lot_ of fierce spirit. There’s nothing wrong with that, but the issue is that the piece just _isn’t about that._

“Does he normally perform these types of songs?” Yuuri asks, leaning against the divider in the kiss and cry section.

Viktor scrunches his nose, and sighs. “So, you can tell?” He sweeps stray locks of hair behind his ears, and Yuuri looks away for a moment. There’s no denying that Viktor is attractive - he _really_ is - but right now, what is needed is professionalism. Yuuri can have a meltdown later. Just not right now.

He nods. “It’s sort of…”

“Emotionless?” Viktor offers, letting out a huff. “You aren’t wrong.”

“No, I wasn’t going to say that,” Yuuri says, trailing off, uncertain.

“Oh?” Viktor’s eyes are curious, looking away from where Yurio is twirling through the Biellmann spin once more. “What would you say is wrong?”

Yuuri gestures helplessly. “It’s sort of...angry. _Agape_ is an innocent, unconditional love, but this is...angry. Or maybe frustrated. I’m uncertain.” He flounders for words, and instead, when it becomes clear that he won’t be able to clearly articulate what exactly it is he wants to say, Yuuri just sighs, and rests his chin atop his palms, leaning heavily on the divider.

Yurio is yelling at someone. The girl is laughing, and her companion is scrolling through her phone. Off to the side, Lilia is cowing Yakov - yet _again._ Yuuri briefly wonders what, exactly she’s planning this time. And beside him, Viktor is laughing at Yurio and the girl, blue eyes bright with mirth. Yuuri’s eyes linger on the slope of his nose, and the way his pale hair brushes over one eye. They trace the brilliant smile the man makes, and the rosy hue of the shell of his ears, undoubtedly from the chill of the rink. Yuuri takes a deep breath, and looks away before Viktor can catch him staring. He lets out the breath shakily, looking off at some indiscernible patch of white painted wall.  

Yuuri’s  _screwed._

 

* * *

 

After lunch finds them in one of the downstairs dance studios. Viktor hasn’t been down here for years - not since Yakov had called Lilia in to help _him,_ and he’s rather surprised that there isn’t a fine layer of dust piling up on the floor, barre, and mirror. Instead, the dance studio looks well taken care of, and the floor has a lacquered shine to it, that talks of a recent waxing. Lilia clicks her tongue at that.

“The floor has been waxed. Still, do barre on flats, then across the floors on pointe. I am going to see if Yakov actually managed to give me the right shoe size.” She crooks a finger at Yurio. “Come.”

Yurio slinks off after Lilia, and Viktor settles against a wall to watch as Yuuri all but bends himself in half on the barre. It’s impressive, especially considering that he can’t be more than, what, two, three years younger than Viktor? It’s rare to see that sort of flexibility in a figure skater older than junior division, but then again, it could be different in ballet. Viktor doesn’t know.

After nearly doing a split atop the barre, Yuuri sits down, reaching into the backpack he’d brought along with him, and pulling out a canvas drawstring shoe bag. The bag looks bright white, what Viktor can only assume is Yuuri’s name written close to the top in bold, black permanent marker. The way the dancer sets the bag down tells Viktor everything - these are Yuuri’s shoes. He handles them with care and a gentle sort of reverence, the way any skater worth his or her salt does with their skates.

“Are those your pointe shoes?” Viktor hovers over Yuuri’s shoulder, looking down at the pair of charcoal black shoes resting by the nude flats he’d just slipped off. Viktor looks at Yuuri’s bare feet, and blinks, shocked.

His feet, while delicately shaped, are a _mess._ There are bandages crisscrossing one another, great big plasters barely covering bloody wounds and sores on the dancer’s feet. Two toes are bandaged as well, and a thin strip of Ace bandages winds around Yuuri’s reddened ankles. His feet are bloody, bruised, and calloused, and Viktor has to look away for a moment.

“Ah!” Yuuri flushes, catching his shock at the state of his feet, before hastily stowing his flats into the backpack. His toes curl into themselves, and Viktor wants to tell Yuuri to _stop,_ because he’s so clearly injured that - “It’s fine, t-this isn’t even that bad!”

Viktor pins Yuuri with an incredulous look. “Your feet are wrecked,” he says. “They’re bleeding! Should you even be dancing with them like that?”

Yuuri smiles, slowly sliding his feet into the black pointe shoes. “This is normal for dancers who go on pointe.” Picking up the shoe he’d yet to put on, Yuuri places it in Viktor’s hand. “Pointe shoes have wooden blocks in them, to give pointe dancers that extra bit of height. It’s why dancers aren’t started _en pointe,_ and why not all dancers go onto pointe.” Taking the shoe back, Yuuri slides it on, and begins painstakingly lacing the ties up around his ankles, sliding his track pants on over them. He stands up, rising _en pointe,_ before coming down in a neat _pli_ _é_ _._ “If you don’t train correctly, you can ruin your ankles.” Reaching down, Yuuri pulls out his phone, pulling the jack protector out from the headphone jack. A little charm dangles from the jack protector, but Yuuri slides it into his pant pocket before Viktor can see what it is.

“The stereo is over there,” he points, gesturing towards the speaker settled comfortably in the corner of the studio. “I can plug your phone in.”

Yuuri flushes. “Thank you. The song is _Fjarl_ _ægur.”_

Viktor nods, pensive, before he plugs the phone in. Yuuri has an abundance of both pop, classical and contemporary on his phone, and briefly, Viktor sees both of the _On Love_ tracks, and he smiles at the thought of Yuuri pouring over the music and choreography, as Viktor had done. Yuuri clearly knows the choreography of Yurio’s piece, if the way he’d tracked every movement without surprise or shock was anything to go by.

The song starts up, soft and lilting, sounding almost like a music box being played, and Yuuri steps into a gentle _glissade,_ before sliding into a tilting _balancé._ He steps out of the _balancé,_ tilts into a _demi-chassé,_ and then he _jumps._

The music builds, quietly, gently, sneaking up on them on light feet, and Viktor watches, eyes wide and awed and Yuuri throws himself into a _grande jeté,_ arms flung wide open, back curved and taught, a sinuous arc traced in mid-air. Everything about it is exultant, from the lift of Yuuri’s chin, to the shadowed dip where his neck meets his clavicle, the perfectly curved point of his toes, and the shock of dark hair as Yuuri throws himself into the air. If Yurio is supposed to be emulating _Agape,_ then this, this would be _Ludus_ \- an uncommitted love, playful and fleeting, yet rich and full and oh so _gorgeous_ while it had lasted.

Yuuri sways out of the _grande jeté,_ swirling around in a series of delicate _piqué_ turns, before whipping his leg around into a _fouetté_ and ending with his body bent over, hunched and solemn - a love that had ended, bittersweet in its parting.

He stands up, chest heaving slightly, before sitting down to unlace his pointe shoes.

“That was wonderful,” Viktor says, shutting the music off. “How long have you been working on that?”

Yuuri flushes, tucking his short hair behind his ears nervously. “Ah, uh, that was a part of a routine I learned when I was in high school. The song is different now, but, the moves haven’t been changed.” His face is bright red, and he looks away from Viktor, rubbing his feet in quiet circles, before sliding them back into his shoes.

“It was gorgeous,” Viktor exclaims, helping Yuuri up. “The _Ludus_ was gorgeous!”

“Ludus?” Yuuri cocks his head to the side, dusting off his track pants. “What is that?”

Viktor beams. “Ah! It’s another one of the seven types of love. Yurio is performing _Agape,_ but there is also another piece by the composer called _Eros._ You, however, performed with such _Ludus!_ A playful love, uncommitted, untethered, that can only end bittersweetly for both involved. It was truly beautiful.” Smile turning sly, Viktor reaches up, and pulls Yuuri’s glasses off from his face. The younger man splutters, face reddening gorgeously once more, as Viktor observes the fine lines and contours of his face. The gentle slope of his cheekbones, and the slant of his eyes - all of Yuuri’s face holds in it a gentle aura that Viktor _knows_ Yurio has, but simply hides underneath his god-awful language, and brash, standoffish personality.

“I wonder,” he murmurs, “if you can show me an _Eros_ I would have never expected?” With a small laugh, Viktor slides the glasses back onto Yuuri’s face - the _danseur_ having gone completely red, just barely stammering out disconnected vowels.

“What the _hell_ did you do?” Yurio says, stalking back into the room. A black cloud hangs over him, and he looks petulantly uncomfortable in the leotard and tights Lilia has fitted him into. Viktor wonders why - their costumes don’t really tend to be much better.

“Nothing, Yurio,” Viktor smiles, stepping away. Yuuri is still _awfully_ red, but he clears his throat a few times, and smoothes his clothing of non-existent wrinkles, before looking up.

He’s still pink in the cheeks, but he shakes his head and moves forwards. “Yurio, do you have any experience in ballet?”

“Yeah, I took lessons for a year when I was younger.”

“Good. Can you take first position?”

 Viktor watches, off to the side, as Yuuri gently coaxes Yurio through a small warm up, and smiles, if only to himself.

A young man who seems to posses only _Agape,_ a boy who knows his _Eros,_ and is better suited towards it. _Interesting,_ Viktor thinks. _Interesting, indeed._


	2. prelude: cantabile soleil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's as they say, one step forwards, two steps back. 
> 
> in which viktor begins to notice something peculiar, and yuuri spins tales for yurio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gUYS HOLY SHIT CAN YOU BELIEVE IT VIKTUURI IS CANON!!!!!!! im in tears wow. w o w. god bless. 
> 
> ok!! on a totally different note! HOLY CRAP YOU GUYS you gave me so much love, thank you so much!!! i don't ever remember updating this quickly in my life my gosh. but enough of me blathering!!! (+ i've added the tag slow burn so yeah...we're in for a long one. i think) 
> 
> song for this chapter is [the rhythm of port town](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCZBnwcTors) from the free! ost. 
> 
> terminology glossary is at the end! enjoy

_( Cantabile: A style of singing which is characterized by the easy and flowing tone of the composition._

_Soleil: in French, "sun." )_

 

* * *

It’s not like Yurio doesn’t like Lilia Baranovskaya, it's just that he _really doesn’t like Lilia Baranovskaya._ Respects her, sure, but respect and like are two _totally_ different things.

As different as day and night, really.

But Lilia is as harsh and stern as her ex-husband, and Yurio gets that, really, but there's still the underlying irritation at being told he isn’t _good enough._ He’s never been sub-par before, has never been _told_ that he’s sub-par, because, well. It comes with being a prodigy, doesn't it? Constantly being the best. But being sub-par _bothers_ him, and it itches in a way that is impossible to scratch away.

So, Yurio respects Lilia, but that doesn't mean he _likes_ her. Her lemon yellow jackets are terrible too. They’re practically _neon,_ what the _fuck._ And she looks constipated. Constantly.

He doesn't like her, sure, but he's got a lot to learn from her. And he’s also got to prove her wrong. Yuri Plisetsky has never been _sub-par,_ and he's not going to start now.

* * *

Lilia leads the two of them into her penthouse apartment, and Yuuri takes a moment of contemplate the sheer amount of _opulence_ filling the house. She _can_ afford it, Yuuri supposes. But the amount of quartz that glimmers in her kitchen is enough to mildly blind Yuuri. It's such a difference from the small apartment he’s been renting for the past year or so, and an even _larger_ difference from the wood and stone that makes up almost all of Yu-topia.

“You,” Lilia barks, gesturing towards Yurio, “will take the guest room down that hallway. The dance studio is downstairs. Breakfast will be at 6:30, and morning practice will start at 7:00 sharp. You will practice until 12:00, and you will have an hour for lunch and a break. Yakov will take you to the rink for _his_ practice for an hour, and afterwards, you will have fifteen minutes to rest. You will practice until 7:00 PM, and dinner will be at 7:30.” She eyes Yurio, as if daring him to complain, but he just nods, looking grim and determined.

He looks exhausted. Yuuri shifts his dance bag on his shoulder, and smiles faintly at Yurio when the sound of his shoes and gear shifting together attracts his attention. “Want to go out for dinner tonight?”

“Sure,” he mutters, looking back at Lilia for confirmation. The ex _-prima_ just raises a finely tweeted eyebrow in response, and shoos them away, shoes clacking against the floor as she walks further into her house. “Where are we going?”

“W-well, there’s a Thai place a couple blocks away, if you like that kind of food.”

Yurio flips his bangs out of his eyes, pulling his phone out from his pocket. “Looks like you’re going to have to invite Viktor too,” he mutters, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Seeing as he just asked me what I’m doing for dinner. Can’t even eat dinner by himself, fucking Viktor.” His tone is still faintly fond, even through the hushed, angry muttering. “Where’s the stupid Thai place?”

“Um...28, Bolshaya Zelenina. I think.”

“You _think?_ You know what, fuck it. If Viktor gets lost, you get to deal with his complaining.” Yurio pockets his phone, and sets his duffel down by the coat rack before shoving his hands into his pockets. “Let's go before it gets too late.” His stomach grumbles in agreement, and Yurio goes bright red for a split second, before turning around and storming out of the penthouse.

Yuuri sighs - ah, teenage angst. The one, if not only, truly universal cultural norm.

* * *

Viktor meets up with Yuuri and Yurio in front of Тайка, a couple minutes before seven. Yurio looks grumpy - as usual, but he’s not scowling quite as hard as he usually is, so Viktor takes that as a sign that maybe, just _maybe,_ Yurio is warming up to Yuuri.

“I haven't had Thai food before,” Viktor says, slipping his gloves into his pockets as they slip into the warm restaurant. “Is it good?”

The restaurant is cozy - rather unlike most restaurants Viktor has been to - with bright chairs in multiple colors and styles stationed around variously sized tables. One wall is painted a pleasant robin egg’s blue, with yellow ceramic flowers dotting the walls in a gridded pattern. The entire restaurant is bright, despite the nighttime outside the large glass windows, and it’s cheery in a way that suits Yuuri rather well.

Yuuri is standing by the hostess podium, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I think it is, but if you’re not used to spicy food, you need to be careful.” He smiles sheepishly. “Thai food gets _very_ spicy.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Yurio mumbles, clicking away at his phone. “I think I’ll stick with something mild.” The unspoken _I don't want to die_ hangs in the air between them, and Viktor holds back a laugh. The last time Yurio had anything spicier than a mild taco, he’d turned a shade of red deeper than Mila’s hair, and drunk at _least_ a gallon of water. There may or may not be pictures still circulating from that day, despite Yurio’s best efforts to erase it from history. Whether or not this is true, Viktor can neither confirm, nor deny, but Mila may or may not have the SD chip from the camera used to take said pictures. It’s _just_ a hunch, though.

Viktor looks away from Yurio, and looks around the restaurant once more. “Well, I’m looking forwards to it,” he says. “Where’s the hostess?”

“Sorry for the wait, sirs - ah, Yuuri!” The hostess is a young woman with sleepy blue eyes, and short, dark hair. She has generous hips, a generous smile, and a general aura of gentle friendliness that is hard to ignore. “You brought friends with you! It’s nice to meet you,” she beams, smoothing down her kitschy apron. “I’ll take you to your table.”

She hustles away as soon as they’re seated - it’s coming up on rush hour, after all, and Тайка seems to be rather popular. Yurio is still clicking away on his phone, and Yuuri is leafing through the menu quietly.

“Who was that?” Viktor asks, leaning over to look at the menu. There’s a knot somewhere in his chest - and it’s unpleasant, unfamiliar, and Viktor doesn't like it.“You come here often enough that the staff knows you?”

Yuuri flushes red, and smooths his fingers over the menu paper, pointedly not looking Viktor in the eye. “N-no. Katya is my neighbor. She’s the one that recommended Тайка to me.”

Viktor looks down at the menu once more, although the small loosening of the knot in his chest does not go unnoticed. _Odd,_ he thinks. _Odd._

* * *

Yuuri meets with Yurio at 7, on the dot, and watches as the younger boy goes about starting barre stretches. He’s flexible - as he should be, considering how much flexibility goes into doing a Biellmann spin - but he consistently forgets to _point his toes_ and it drives Yuuri insane.

And so, they find themselves, at 8 o’clock in the morning, with Yurio scowling as he holds an _arabesque,_ foot still, stubbornly refusing to just _point._ Yuuri could cry. Or maybe just scream. One of those two.

“You _have_ to point your toes,” he says, walking over to Yurio’s foot. Gently, he rearranges the foot, poking toes into place, and setting the heel in a reasonable position so that _finally,_ Yurio’s holding a decent _arabesque,_ with his toes pointing. “Lilia will tear you apart if you don’t.”

“What does this have to do with _Agape?”_ Yurio grumbles, slowly bringing his leg down. “I’m not performing an _arabesque_ during my skate.” He flicks a strand of hair out of his face, irritated, and Yuuri tries not to laugh a little at the expression the teenager makes. He looks like a wet cat, disgruntled and annoyed.

“Here.” Yuuri slides off the spare hair tie he keeps around his wrist - he normally keeps them for workout shirts - and hands it to Yurio. “Tie your hair up.”

“...Thanks.”

Yuuri watches him for a second, before padding off to the stereo. He scrolls through his phone, before pulling up the track for _On Love: Agape’s_ juxtaposition, _Eros._ He won’t be dancing Yurio’s dance - no, all the emotions, the delicate nuances and vulnerabilities are Yurio’s to decipher, to discover. Yuuri won’t take that away from him. There’s something wonderfully beautiful, something _freeing_ about finally figuring out what makes a frustrating routine click.

“Agape is many things that you don’t show,” Yuuri starts. The music starts, a temptingly sultry beat beginning to pulse through the dance room. He wraps his arms around himself and _imagines._ A beautifully unattainable woman, and promiscuous man, far too handsome for his own good - and for the women around him. But Yuuri has never been able to click with a man such as that, and so settles in, becoming the temptress. She is unattainable, perfection made of sterling silver, and stolen starlight - and she is everything a man could want, with lips blood red without tint, cheeks rosy without rouge, and eyes that catch every stray beam of light, tempting and twinkling in the curtain of nighttime.

“It is a gentle love, one that may be bittersweet, fraught with loss.” Step sequences become leaps and jumps, and delicate movements that draw the attention. A swirling camel spin becomes an _arabesque,_ which steps out into a _pirouette._ Toe loops become _tours en l’air,_ and salchows traded for _revoltades._ “It’s unconditional. _Innocent._ Patient where we normally find we cannot be, and caring through the toughest of times.” Yuuri allows himself to soak in the music, and he finds himself running - never in pursuit, always leading. This man, he has a quicksilver tongue, and eyes bluer than the ocean, a beauty to parallel her own, but he is not one to be trusted. He is the child of rose thorns, and salt tears, and he is on the hunt, thick in the chase, but no, no, this man is sly and cunning, and it would be _easy,_ to fall into his arms, and let the dice fall as they may.

She is the most beautiful woman in town, and such a man is not worth of her. Oh, she’ll let this man in, let him think he’s getting close, but she’ll pull away each time, and remind him, that this is why they say that she is a goddess of the stars - and mere men cannot ever hope to touch the stars. Their dance is one of longing, lazy passion charged with danger and _want_ strong enough to anchor the gods to the mortal realm, and soon, _soon,_ they are together, arm in arm, body against body, until one melts into another, and it feels as if light is streaming out in ribbons. But in the morning, the man is gone, forever the child of rose thorns and salt tears, and though she may be the most beautiful woman in town, she has made a mistake. But one mistake of a man cannot change what she is - made of sterling silver and stolen starlight, with the sunshine and moonlight in her eyes, and though she has made this mistake, she will not falter. A woman of her caliber has other lovers to satiate her, and though perhaps another will never suffice, she is still a goddess, preserved in her perfection amongst the stars in the night’s drapery, and this man, he will have lovers that come and go, shedding them as he would clothing or hair, but never, she swears, will he find another lover like her. No star is alike. No star is the same, and she is made of sterling silver and stolen starlight, and she is the brightest of them all.

Let him rue his mistakes. She will move on, and shroud herself in gold and platinum, and he will never again find her, even if he searches until the day he dies.

The song fades out, and Yuuri stands still, arms wrapped around himself, breaths coming out in soft, huffing pants.

“There, see?” Yuuri slides over to shut the speakers off, and turns to Yurio. “How I see _Eros._ You don’t have to take from your life,” he offers, coming to stand beside the teenager. “I, uh, I definitely can’t take any real _Eros_ from my life -” and Yuuri earns a snort from that statement - “and I don’t know if you are willing to bare your soul enough to show _Agape_ from your life to so many people. But what you can do, is create a story.” He smiles, earnest and warm. “Listen to the music, and let _it_ tell you the story. You’ll certainly find your _Agape,_ one way or another.”

“Now, come on. We can do across the floors.”

Yurio follows after him, settling into first position, and Yuuri lets out a breath. He can handle this. He can handle this.

He can handle this.

* * *

Yurio grudgingly admits to himself, that Yuuri Katsuki is not as bad as he’d anticipated. Beneath the wishy-washy, wallflower exterior, there are hints of a steel backbone. The older man is firm when he needs to be, but still uncertain enough that Yurio knows that there are buttons he can push, if need be.

He glides into a triple toe loop, absent mindedly skating around the rink. He’s got a bit of free time before Viktor gets here, and Yuuri is seated in the kiss and cry section once more, tapping quietly away at his phone.

“What was your story?” Yurio is close enough that they won’t be heard by the other skaters warming up and practicing, but Mila is a nosy hag - _what else is new -_ and she raises an eyebrow at Yurio.

He flips her the bird, and looks back a Yuuri.

“For _Eros?”_

“No, I meant for that stupid fucking _Shall We Skate_ song. _Of fucking course_ I meant _Eros,”_ Yurio replies, exasperated. “What story did you choose?”

Yuuri rocks back and forth on his heels, and he fidgets with the blue frames of the glasses perched atop his nose. “It was a story about a playboy, and the most beautiful woman in town.” He quirks his lips, a wry and tired movement. “An infamous playboy comes into a town, and manages to charm his way into the bed of every woman in the town, aside from one woman - the most beautiful woman in town. They engage in a chase, but one misstep leads the woman into his arms, for a night. He’s gone by daylight, and the woman knows that he will never find a lover like her, and swears that even if he keeps looking until the day he dies, he will never see her again.” Yuuri folds his hands into his large coat, and looks out onto the ice. “A fast-paced romance, that in the end, perhaps wasn’t really love, after all.” His voice is quiet, contemplating, and Yurio stands with him.

“And were you the man?”

Yuuri smiles - a full, _real_ thing, this time - and it makes his eyes crinkle, and his cheeks dimple. “Ah, no. Were you expecting me to be?”

Yurio thinks of the dance, underground, in that studio untouched by dust and age. He thinks of the teasing, tempting dance Yuuri had done, a tango for two performed in the arms of one. There is no pleading searching in that fierce dance, just _desire._ A confidant desire, full of temptations and pitfalls, and the whirling swirling chase it created.

“No. You were the woman,” Yurio says blandly, shoving his hands into the stupid tiny pockets in his practice pants. “What, should I be a woman too for _Agape?_ ”

“No, you should do what suits the image given to you by the song. Let _it_ decide what part you play.”

“Sound advice!” They both look up, and towards the entrance, where Viktor is hurrying towards the kiss and cry, a bright smile on his face. “Yuuri, that was a great thing to say!” He beams at the both of them, then shoos Yurio back onto the ice. “Alright, take it from the top, Yurio.”

 _Agape_ pours through the speakers, and Yurio begins to contemplate what, exactly, _Agape_ is to him, and what stories this song has to spin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _arabesque_ : a body position in which a dancer stands on one leg (the supporting leg) with the other leg (the working leg) turned out and extended behind the body, with both legs held straight  
>  _pirouette_ : a non-traveling turn on one leg, of one or more rotations, often starting with one or both legs in _plié_ and rising onto _demi-pointe_ or _pointe._  
>  _tours en l'air_ : quite literally, a "turn in the air." a jump, typically done by males, with a full rotation in the air. a single _tour en l'air_ is 360 degrees  
>  _revoltade_ : a bravura jump in which one lands on the leg from which one pushes off after that leg travels around the other leg lifted to 90 degrees.
> 
> note: Тайка is a real thai restaurant in sankt petersburg! apparently they have good alcohol 
> 
> but seriously! thank you guys so sososososo much - i honestly wasn't expecting this sort of reception, and im super glad you guys like this so much! as it were, comments + kudos are greatly appreciated, and if anything seems odd, or a character is occ, let me know! 
> 
> hmu on my [tumblr](starbxrn.tumblr.com)!!!!!!!!!!


	3. prelude: leitmotif for eros and apollo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yuuri cries, viktor pines. 
> 
> or: in which viktor contemplates if kissing yuuri would feel like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday to the light of my life, the sexiest katsudon i've ever seen, yuuri katsuki!!!!! this chapter is a little short, but i wanted to get it up for yuuri's birthday. next chapter should hopefully be longer + come sooner. with any luck. as well, there was a plagiarism accusation leveled at pas de deux, in regards to another yuri!!! on ice fic with a similar plot, adagio. just in case, i would like to formally state **pas de deux has no relations to adagio, or any other yoi fic with a similar plotline.** i have never plagiarized before, and i've no intention to start now.
> 
> sorry to start you guys on such a downer (._.) but this chapter is like...99.9 percent of viktor pining over yuuri so...yeah!! and, i reveal the beginnings of an actual plot! gasp. 
> 
> this chapter's song is: [kiss me (acoustic)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fedQ5h1z1-M) by ed sheeran. 
> 
> enjoy!

_ ( _  Leitmotif: a musical theme given to a particular idea or main character of an opera  _)_

* * *

 

Minako hasn’t traveled by plane for a while now - almost two years, not since the last USAIBC Yuuri competed in - so she’s forgotten how  _ easily  _ she gets lost in airports. Pulkovo International is large - almost the same size as JFK, or Haneda - and worst of all, Minako  _ cannot  _ read Cyrillic.

She checks her watch instead. It’s four in the afternoon, and it’s likely that Yuuri might still be in rehearsal - but although she’ll never admit it, Minako is getting a little nervous. With her ballet company, she’d been to Russia a total of  _ twice.  _ And Yuuri has always come back to Hasetsu to visit them, not the other way around but this - this is  _ important.  _ It’s life changing, even.

Minako steers her luggage and herself to the side, apologizing in rusty English when the tail end of her suitcase whacks a harried looking mother in the leg. Pulling out her phone, Minako purses her lips together, and dials.

* * *

Yuuri and Yurio have just finished a small, five minute break, when Yuuri’s phone goes off somewhere deep inside of his dance bag. The annoying song Mari had programmed into his phone in December rings out into the dusty dance room, and Yuuri immediately regrets never getting around to changing it back to the standard - albeit,  _ boring  _ \- ringtone he’d been using before Mari had gotten to it.

Yurio stares at Yuuri for a minute, having forgotten that he was in the middle of screwing the cap back onto his bottle of water. They both share a moment of mutual silence, in which Yurio stares at Yuuri, then slowly looks over to Yuuri’s dance bag, and then back and his rapidly reddening face. The  _ what the fuck?  _ goes unspoken, but certainly not unimplied.

Yuuri breaks away, to pick up his phone, and to try to compose himself. It’s fine. Humiliation is honestly something he should be used to by now.  _ Honestly. _

“H-hello?”

_ “Yuuri! It’s me.” _

The sound of Japanese, fluid and round in his ears is enough to calm Yuuri down. The fact that it’s  _ Minako-sensei  _ speaking to him helps even more. “Hi, Minako- _ sensei.  _ How are you?” He’d ask her why she’s  _ calling,  _ but Minako- _ sensei  _ will probably get to that on her own. His parents raised him to be polite, after all. Out of him and Mari, Yuuri knows that at least  _ one  _ of them has to try, and they all know Mari doesn’t really bother.

_ “I’ve been good. Vicchan is doing fine, but he’s getting old, and your family misses you. Yuuko says you need to Skype her tonight.”  _ There’s the odd sound of a crowd behind Minako- _ sensei,  _ and if Yuuri tries to listen, he can almost swear that he can hear Russian being spoken, not Japanese. But that’s insane, because Minako- _ sensei  _ doesn’t travel unless she’s attending one of his competitions, or performances, and he has nothing like that coming up anytime soon.  _ “Yuuri, are you in rehearsal with the company right now?” _

“Ah, no,” Yuuri mumbles, rubbing at the back of his head. “I’m working with a student right now. W-well, more like ah, helping someone out! With...ballet. I’m not teaching anyone. N-not really.”

Yurio’s exasperated grumble in the background cements the fact that  _ yes,  _ that was a pathetic word vomit.

_ “Oh!”  _ Minako- _ sensei  _ sounds pleasantly surprised.  _ “Well, Yuuri, do you know the address of the studio you’re at right now? I’m about to catch a cab from Pulkovo.” _

Yuuri blinks, once, twice, pulls his phone away from his ear, and looks at Minako- _ sensei’s  _ contact photo, blinks again, then sandwiches the phone in between his shoulder and ear. “Y-you’re in Saint Petersburg?”

_ “Yeah. There’s something I’ve got to tell you in person.” _

Nervously wetting his lips, Yuuri feels his heart rise into his throat. Automatically, he begins to assume the worst -  _ something’s happen to Yuuko, something’s happened to Mom, to Dad, to Mari, to Takeshi, to the triplets, to Vicchan  _ \- but he takes a deep breath. He needs to calm down. Working himself up isn’t going to  _ help  _ if anything bad has happened, so Yuuri breathes in and out. “I don’t really know the address off of the top of my head, but just, um, give me a minute.” Yuuri turns to Yurio. “Do you know the rink’s address?”

Yurio scrunches his eyebrows together for a minute. “Yeah.” He rattles off the address, tone of voice bored, but Yuuri can see faint curiosity glittering in his eyes.

_ “I’ll see you soon, Yuuri. Good luck!” _

Yuuri keeps the phone pressed to his ear for a minute after the dial tone indicates that Minako- _ sensei  _ has hung up.

“Let’s go over that step sequence again, Yurio.”

Yurio doesn’t really argue, and Yuuri, who is lost in thought, is grateful.

* * *

Lilia, thankfully, lets Yuuri off when Minako- _ sensei  _ texts him to announce her arrival, and Yurio is whisked off to the gym, for cardio and other general fitness conditioning. The younger is undoubtedly pissed about it - and Yuuri understands. Weights and cardio have always been the worst part of physical conditioning for ballet, so it’s understandable that the same would apply to figure skating. And while Yuuri is  _ certain  _ that Yurio will (probably) be fine, his calves and thighs ache in sympathy as he remembers his cardio and weight regimen, and how  _ hard  _ the aches will undoubtedly hit him once he gets back to it later tonight.

Minako- _ sensei  _ is sitting outside of the rink, luggage at her feet, as she observes the snow still lining the ground, and the hustle and bustle of the Saint Petersburg city life. The tip of her nose is slowly turning dusky pink, and the apples of her cheeks are already that color.

“Minako- _ sensei? _ ” Yuuri sits beside her, slightly shivering - he forgot his sweatshirt in the dance studio,  _ of course. _

“Yuuri!” Minako- _ sensei  _ hugs him, a warm, white smile spreading across her face. She looks the same - her hair is still long, still the same shade of pale brown, still tied back the same way, and her eyes still manage to look harsh and warm at the exact same time, and while it’s only been a month since Yuuri last saw Minako- _ sensei,  _ he’s struck by a sudden pang of  _ longing.  _ It had been like this in Detroit as well. He’d be fine on his own, until all of a sudden, Yuuko would Skype him out of the blue one night, or he’d open up his photos, and see the last picture he’d taken with Vicchan before heading back to the States, and Yuuri would miss Hasetsu and Japan fiercely.

He misses them now, as he buries his face into the slender dip of her shoulder and graceful neck, and revels in the sensation of  _ warmth  _ piercing through the terrible cold that always seems to surround Saint Petersburg.

“I missed you,” he mutters quietly, face heating. They’re still very much  _ in public,  _ and Yuuri knows that Minako- _ sensei _ has realized this, by the way that her arms tighten around him  _ ever so slightly,  _ pinning him to her, and practically condemning him to this fate.

“I know you did,” Minako- _ sensei  _ says, fond glee coloring her voice, before she stops, and Yuuri can feel his blood run cold. “ _ Yuuri. _ ”

“Y...yes?”

“ **_Why aren’t you wearing a coat?_ ** ”

She’s angry.  _ So, so  _ angry. Yuuri is screwed.

“I forgot it?” It’s a flimsy answer, and both of them know it. Minako- _ sensei  _ has pulled away from him, glaring as she looks him up and down - at the ragged trainers that Yuuri  _ still  _ hasn’t bothered to replace, to the short-sleeved workout shirt and shorts he’s wearing, and the glaring lack of any form of coat - and she meets his eyes, and hers promise a slow death if he even lets out something that remotely resembles a cough during her stay in Russia.

“Well, we’re heading inside. Go, _ go _ .” Minako- _ sensei  _ flaps her hands, as she follows him into the skating rink, luggage clacking noisily behind her. “ _ Move,  _ Yuuri! Before you get sick!”

She swats at where his head was, but Yuuri ducks away, his hair ruffling as her hand just passes harmlessly through where he once was. Minako- _ sensei  _ growls at him, but Yuuri laughs, and runs away again, sprinting into the rink, Minako- _ sensei  _ hot on his heels.

This is familiar. This is nice - good. It’s everything he’s missed about Hasetsu, the easy camaraderie, and the feeling that he might belong somewhere so effortlessly. It isn’t enough to dull the ache of homesickness, and it’s not enough to quell the pang he feels as they both stumble inside of the skating rink, and Yuuri wishes that it was Yu-topia that they just burst into, but for now? This - this is enough.

Yuuri smiles at Minako- _ sensei,  _ and knows, that he has missed this.

* * *

Viktor is used to being surprised, but he’s not prepared for the sight of Yuuri stumbling into the lobby of the skating rink, an older woman’s arm slung around his shoulder. The both of them are rosy-cheeked, eyes alight with joy and laughter, and the woman is saying something in rapid-fire Japanese to Yuuri, who cannot seem to stop laughing. The young man is shivering though, teeth clacking together as he laughs, and Viktor disapprovingly notes the lack of warm clothing.

Yuuri should  _ not  _ be wearing shorts that short. Not in this kind of weather. It’s impractical, and quite frankly, irresponsible. Honestly.

“Yuuri!” Viktor calls out. The knot in his chest is  _ back,  _ damnably so, and Viktor wants to  _ ignore it  _ and stamp it  _ down.  _ It’s irritating, and wholly unwanted.

“Viktor, hello,” Yuuri replies. “Is something wrong?”

Pausing, Viktor shrugs, and pastes an easy ( _ fake _ ) smile on his face. “Ah, nothing! I was just wondering who this lovely lady happened to be?” Turning to the woman, he smiles, all teeth and lips. “Viktor Nikiforov - it’s nice to meet you.”

She raises a fine eyebrow at him, and disentangles herself from Yuuri, and extends a hand. “Minako Okukawa. I’m Yuuri’s old dance instructor. Nice to meet you too, Mr. Nikiforov.” Her English is lilting, slightly out of use, and slightly accented for it.

Viktor shakes her hand, and notes the way her grip tightens ever so slightly as they grasp hands. It’s a small threat -  _ fuck up, and you’re dead  _ \- but Viktor isn’t sure  _ why  _ she thinks he needs this kind of warning. It’s not like he’s dating Yuuri.

“Well, welcome! I hope you've enjoyed Saint Petersburg so far, Miss Okukawa.”

Minako shrugs. “I haven't had the chance to see much of it. My flight landed an hour ago.” She smiles, and ruffles Yuuri’s hair. “I’m sure you’ll take me around,  _ right,  _ Yuuri?”

Yuuri laughs, swatting uselessly at her hand. “Ah, sure! But, um, why  _ are  _ you here, Minako- _ sensei?  _ You said you had something to tell me?”

She claps her hands together quickly, startling both Yuuri and Viktor. “Right, right! Sorry to worry you, Yuuri.” Fishing around in her large purse, Minako hums quietly, before letting out a triumphant noise, and pulling out a crisp, white envelope. Yuuri’s name is written on it in stark black ink. Coupled with the smooth cream of the envelope, it paints an expensive and imposing picture.

Yuuri takes it with careful hands, and carefully, breaks it open. He’s concentrating, trying his hardest not to tear the envelope any more than he already has, and Viktor finds himself incredibly distracted by the tongue poking absent-mindedly out from the side of Yuuri’s mouth.

Which he  _ shouldn’t be,  _ by the way. It's  _ unprofessional.  _ Not that Viktor has ever really cared about professionalism, per say.

It’s complicated.

But Yuuri lets out a choked noise, and Viktor looks over to see the young man clutching the letter tight in one hand, the other hand clapped tight over his mouth. His eyes are wide and disbelieving, and there are dully glittering pinpricks of tears gathering in the corners.

“Minako- _ sensei! _ ” He’s staring at her with wet eyes, and Viktor watches as she gathers him into her arms, and he starts to cry, choked, muffled sobs into the material of Minako’s coat.

Viktor is at a loss for words. He can only assume that something terrible has happened, with how hard and terrible Yuuri’s crying is. Had someone in his family died? Was everything alright with his family? Was his teacher all right? Viktor stared at the woman, trying to discern if there was anything wrong with her, but there was a healthy flush to her cheeks, and she carried herself with a strength that came from having perfect control over a physically and mentally healthy body.

“I know, I know,” she coos, rubbing the back of his head. “I  _ told  _ you.”

Yuuri pops off from her shoulder, hastily wiping away glittering tear tracks. His cheeks are flushed a dusky rose, and his eyes are just a bit red underneath, puffy from crying. Yuuri’s chest hitches and shudders with every breath he takes as he tries to calm down, but he meets Minako’s eyes, and breaks out into helpless laughter.

Viktor is  _ so  _ confused. 

“Yuuri, did something happen?” He wets his lips, uncertain of what it is he needs to  _ say  _ in this odd situation. “Is everything alright?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, and nods. “Y-yes, everything’s fine, Viktor.” He beams, holding the letter up for Viktor to read. “I’ve been chosen to compete in this year’s _Prix Benoise de la Danse,_ ” he gushes, practically alight with both nerves and excitement. “Minako- _sensei_ said that there was a chance that I’d be nominated to compete, so of course, I’ve been working on a routine, but there’s the issue with -”

Viktor reaches over, and grasps Yuuri’s frantically gesturing hands. They were warm in his own - almost abnormally so, considering that he’d been outside in the biting winter cold not too long ago - and Yuuri stopped, staring down at where their hands joined.

But Viktor smiles, and draws Yuuri in for a tight hug. “Congratulations, Yuuri. I may not know  _ that  _ much about ballet, but I am absolutely certain that you deserve this.” He presses a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead, and a strange feeling settles in his chest. It pulses stronger when they pull apart, and Viktor looks down at Yuuri, and the other man’s eyes are practically  _ glowing,  _ warm, bright and so  _ warm,  _ shaded with rich honey and dark chocolate.

Yuuri smiles softly, a warm, slow thing, pearly white, and blindingly  _ bright,  _ and the feeling hits Viktor like a punch to the gut, or a particularly hard fall on the ice rink.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says softly.

It’s far too soon to be love - they’ve only known each other for a little more than a week, after all - but  _ god,  _ it feels a lot like it.

“It’s true,” Viktor replies instead. “You’re brilliant.”

Yuuri squeezes his hands tightly before dropping them, still smiling warmly at him. “You are too.  _ Thank you. _ ”

He has to leave to fetch Yurio from the fitness room to continue that day’s practice, and Minako follows him, but Viktor stays there in the lobby for a few minutes longer, staring at his hands as they tingle with Yuuri’s warmth. There was something that felt  _ right  _ when they were close enough that Viktor could smell the sweat from dancing and green tea shampoo in Yuuri’s hair, and Viktor wonders, briefly, if kissing Yuuri would feel like coming home.

It’s ridiculous to think about things like that, of course. They’ve only known each other for little more than a week after all.

It’s only been a little more than a week, after all.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _prix benoise de la danse_ : one of the most prestigious dance awards out there. some of the best ballerinas, danseurs, and choreographers around the world are gathered for this. it takes place on april 29th, the international day of dance, at the bolshoi theater. 
> 
> note: the song mari reprogrammed yuuri's phone to play as his ringtone is the song cagayake girls! from the anime k-on. it's a running joke for me to see if i can sandwich it into a fic somehow. the song itself is really catchy, though. 
> 
> on timeline issues: presuming that yuuri was never in professional ice skating to begin with, viktor officially decided to choreograph/assist.coach yurio in the upcoming season, so that was decided in december, a week after the grand prix ended - which would be dec. 18th, going by this year's timetable for the prix (gp ends 11th, a week later is the 18th) giving them the other two weeks to realize that yurio definitely needs help with certain aspects, yakov calls lilia in on january 5th-7th, and she brings yuuri in with her. yuuri and minako starting the potential routine for the prix benoise de la danse in early sept, and the acceptance letter arrive january 10th-12th, and minako arrives in russia january 14th. 
> 
> thank you guys so much for your continued support! this fic is really thanks to all of you being so nice to me. i'm almost done responding to all the comments i've gotten thus far.
> 
> as per usual, comments + kudos would be greatly appreciated! i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and i'll see you soon.


	4. interlude: a cavatina for camaraderie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which yuuri _finally_ has a day off, and viktor gets jealous a little too easily.
> 
> it's ok, viktor. keep fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hI!!! holy crap, episode 10??????that's my shit right there. it's canon - yoi is the fluffy gay pining fic we've all been waiting for. bless. 
> 
> so, yes, once more this is...late...i do have an honest explanation, though. so uh, around last week i caught this terrible bout of the flu, and in all honesty,,,three days are missing from my memory so,,,yeah, not very good. but i tried to make this chapter longer for you guys instead! yay!!! 
> 
> raise your hands if you're still in tears over episode 10 because i am. i really am. and i swear, i sWEAR, i am going to reply to every one of you lovely people who left me nice comments, so yeah. that'll get done tonight, because i (hopefully) won't be catching the flu again anytime soon. 
> 
> this chapter's song is [Ljósið](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mYIfiQlfaas&list=PL58bJjbx9ENUwZ4941LX-bc2l8_sxdW_o&index=1), by Olafur Arnalds. it's a gorgeous piece???and you should definitely listen to it because i hecking love it. 
> 
> ok that's all for now - enjoy the chapter!!

( _interlude:_ _ a piece of instrumental music played between scenes in a play or opera. _

_cavatina: a short and simple melody performed by a soloist that is a part of a larger piece._ )

* * *

 

Euphie isn’t the  _ prima  _ for the Bolshoi, and as she looks over at where the current  _ prima  _ and  _ premier danseur  _ are huddled, talking to  _ Msr.  _ Starkov, she bends herself in half and promptly thanks her lucky stars for that. 

She  _ was  _ nearly chosen to train under the current  _ prima,  _ but had been passed over for Anya Romanova. Euphie supposes that she  _ was  _ bitter about that for a little while, but watching the  _ prima  _ and her protege work themselves into a tizzy is enough for her to step back and be just a bit grateful.

“How far into stretching are we?” Someone - a very  _ familiar  _ someone - slides in next to her, shoes on and shirt pinned with that same safety pin.

“Yuuri, hello,” Euphie murmurs. He looks happier, healthier, even, with a tinge of pink in his cheeks, and a small smile on his lips. “How was it, working with figure skaters?”

Yuuri folds himself over, turning his head to meet her gaze. A few stray strands of his hair flop into his eyes, and he blows them out of the way irritatedly, before quirking his lips up helplessly. “They’re great at what they do, and Viktor Nikiforov is  _ definitely _ just as gorgeous as the pictures paint him to be, but they just,” he sighs, rolling his eyes, and Euphie  _ knows  _ what Yuuri is going to say.

“Wait, let me guess.  _ They just don’t point their toes _ ,” she finishes, moving into a straddle split.

A pause.

“Am I that predictable?”

Euphie laughs, sheepishly shrugging as  _ Msr.  _ Starkov glares at her. (and it’s meant to be  _ very  _ intimidating, and oh so  _ Russian,  _ Euphie is certain, but she grew up in Calais, France, in the very heart and soul of ballet, where their art began, and where every other little girl on the street is competing to be one of the gorgeous ballerinas dancing on stage, and to become like the facsimiles twirling in their music boxes. She’s not afraid of a crotchety old ex- _ premier danseur. _ ) She flips her ponytail to the other shoulder, and pitches her voice quieter as Yuuri transitions into a straddle too.

“Oh, you know. Just a little,  _ mon petit petard, _ ” Euphie says, reaching for her toes. “That sass has, however, gone out of  _ control  _ lately. We’ll have to squish it down.”

Yuuri lets out a loud burst of laughter, tucking his face in between his arms as he bends over. “Well, you know. Spending as much time as I do around you was bound to have  _ some  _ effect.”

Euphie laughs, and unrepentantly pokes a finger into Yuuri’s sides, even as  _ Msr.  _ Starkov glares at her again. She doesn’t really care. This is the happiest she’s seen Yuuri in a while. The poor thing is always so melancholy, even if it’s hidden under a layer of determination, and well meaning sass. Euphie understands what it is to be homesick too - Calais is a long ways away from Russia, after all - and she’s glad that something has managed to make the melancholy melt away.

“So,  _ Viktor Nikiforov,  _ huh?”

“ _ No. _ ” Yuuri responds too quickly, and too vehemently, and Euphie grins maniacally at that.

“Oh  _ really?  _ I distinctly remember  _ someone  _ saying that he was ‘ _ definitely just as gorgeous as the pictures painted him to be.’  _ So, does our little  _ Yuratchka  _ have a crush?”

“ _ Euphie, I swear to God- _ ”

“Wow, it must be  _ serious. _ ”

Yuuri sighs, folding his legs into butterfly. “I hate you.”

Euphie mimics him. “Ah, but you don’t.”

“Yeah, guess not,” he sighs, voice muffled as his nose touches his toes.

(They move onto other topics - like the new casting that’s  _ just  _ about to go up, and how the list is going to be outside by the water fountains, on that bulletin board that always looks like someone fought it with an angry cat, and the board barely made it out alive. 

Euphie  _ knows  _ that Yuuri _ has _ to have been cast this time around - after being chosen to train under their current  _ premier danseur  _ to take up the mantel when Pyotr leaves next year, it practically guarantees him a spot in the upcoming show.

And personally, it’s within Euphie’s best interests to see Yuuri perform in  _ Giselle.  _ The choreography and costumes and just about  _ everything  _ are so gorgeous, and Euphie really just wants to see Yuuri emulating all of the heartbreak and longing of Hilarion’s final dance.)

* * *

They have half an hour of time before the staff boots them out of the rehearsal rooms, and Euphie is watching Yuuri painstakingly dance through his routine to  _ Ljósið _ . The  _ brisé  _ slides fluidly into a  _ chassé,  _ and Yuuri throws himself into a  _ cabriole,  _ whirling out from it in a dizzying step sequence. He steps out too soon from the  _ pas de cheval _ , stuttering precariously  _ en pointe,  _ and just barely catching himself before he hits the wall mirror. 

It  _ is  _ gorgeous, though, - in all its unpolished, stumbling glory - and in it, Euphie can almost feel a breeze brushing tenderly across her cheeks, ruffling her hair, before taking off in a burst of color. It’s not done, and Yuuri clearly does need those four months afforded to him before the  _ Prix Benoise de la Danse,  _ but the emotion gets across. It’s a cry to innocence, a fond farewell, and a reliving of a childhood full of color and  _ life.  _ They would not know if it was a farewell to  _ life,  _ but as the song swelled, Euphie felt as if the dancer was wilting,  _ fading,  _ and when the final farewell was bade, everything golden and bright and beautiful would fade with him.

Yuuri ended, sitting on the floor, legs curved and bent, one bunched up against his chest, the other curved in the back. He rested his cheek against one knee, arms wrapped around himself, loose and easy, and the last strains of the violin petered out, golden and bright for one last time.  

“You can’t go even  _ one  _ solo piece without being melancholy or making me sad, can you?” Euphie complains, chucking the wrapper of her granola bar at him. “ _ Boo, boo,  _ you damn angst machine. Give me something happy for once!”

“It’s not meant to be melancholy!” Yuuri complains, brushing the granola wrapper out from his hair. “It’s just...supposed to make you remember.” He sighs, flopping backwards onto the floor. “The theme is supposed to be  _ remembrance.  _ Remembering your childhood, past loves, things that meant a lot to you.”

“It reminded me more of innocence. Like,” Euphie hummed, pursing her lips together. “Like you were remembering it, before saying goodbye for good.”

Finality. The piece, the dance, the movements, and every little nuance in between rang of finality. A final goodbye, a final bow, but promising new horizons, and new potential just barely out of reach. It promised the opening of a new chapter.

“ _ Ugh, _ ” she bemoaned, scooting closer to whack Yuuri on the arm. “Stop making me feel  _ old,  _ I’m not supposed to feel old this early.”

“You’re younger than me, Euphie.”

“ _ Ugh,  _ I  _ know. _ ”

* * *

Sunday finds Yuuri back in the ice rink, watching Yurio and Viktor lace up their skates to go out onto the ice. Sunday is a well-deserved day of rest for Yurio, and the Bolshoi has a rest day too, so Yuuri texts Euphie, while waiting for her to get to the rink. Minako- _ sensei  _ is off in the city, searching for a souvenir to bring to Yuuko’s kids, and while he’d offered to come along, Minako- _ sensei  _ had shot him down quickly. 

He’s a little offended, but she can take care of herself.

But Euphie is running a little late - and it’s always been that way, especially in Saint Petersburg - and Viktor is looking over at him, skating over, and Yuuri is guiltily  _ glad  _ that Euphie isn’t here to see this, because this? This is the stuff she  _ lives  _ to tease him about.

“Yuuri, do you know how to skate?” Viktor asks. He’s handsome today, ( _ yes,  _ yuuri will admit that viktor is...aesthetically pleasing. to the eye.) in black leggings and a gray thermal. He leans over the divider between the rinkside seating and the rink itself, and Yuuri tries his  _ very best  _ not to stare too long at Viktor’s eyes.

“Ah! Yes, yes, a little,” Yuuri admits, smiling faintly. Viktor is  _ too  _ close. He’s close enough that Yuuri can smell his shampoo - it’s a tart smell, like green apples and lime - and Yuuri desperately tries to ignore the beading of sweat along his hairline.

He can’t help it, really - Victor is just about the most aesthetically attractive man Yuuri has ever seen, and that’s counting the  _ premier danseur  _ from the Tokyo Ballet, Yasuomi Akimoto. He’s having quite a bit of a crisis as it is, and Yuuri is just  _ really glad  _ that Euphie isn’t here to see this.

Yurio, however, is, and if the disgusted noises he’s making are anything to go by, Yuuri is fairly certain he’s none too pleased.

“Stop  _ flirting  _ and get on the damn ice,  _ Viktor! _ ” He bellows, racing over. “He’ll get on the damn ice when he does, so just get your  _ stupid ass  _ out here and  _ skate! _ ” With another frustrated noise, Yurio grabs Viktor by the arm, and begins painstakingly dragging the older man out onto the ice with him.

Yuuri watches, faintly amused and shocked. If Yurio’s slowly reddening face is anything to go by, Viktor is likely heavier than he looks.

“Well, that’s  _ Yura  _ for you,” someone remarks. A young woman with a short red bob is standing next to him, her phone out and taking pictures of Yurio and Viktor. Viktor is laughing now, head thrown back, silver hair in disarray, while Yurio has managed to make himself look like a slighted cat.

It’s...oddly adorable, in its own, very unusual way.

“I’m Mila.” She grins, quicksilver and bright. “The one who  _ Yura  _ is always yelling about.”

“Ah!” Yuuri clapped his hands together. “The old-” He stopped, cheeks heating up. “Oh, ah, I’m sorry.”

Mila laughs. “If I cared about  _ Yura  _ calling me an old hag, he’d be bruised in places other than his feet, Yuuri. I don’t mind.”

“ _ Are you taking fucking  _ **_pictures?_ ** ”

“That’s my cue, I suppose,” Tucking her phone into her sports bra, Mila held out her arms, catching Yurio firmly, a hand grasped firmly around one leg, the other around a forearm, hefting him above her head with far more strength than Yuuri had ever thought she would be capable of.

“ _ Fuck you, put me  _ **_DOWN!_ ** ” Shrieking again, Yurio squirmed in her grip, careful not to squirm hard enough that he cut Mila with one of his skates, or fell out of her grip. “ _ You fucking old  _ **_hag,_ ** _ put me  _ **_down!_ ** ”

“See?” Mila tilted her chin up, gesturing to the struggling mass of teenager she held over her head. “Everything’s fine. Excuse us,” she trilled, walking off. “We’ll be back in a few!”

Viktor skated over, shaking his head incredulously. “Mila is a force of nature all on her own, isn’t she?”

Yuuri nodded. “We can  _ never  _ let her meet Euphie.” If that happened, the world would implode, or they’d gang up on him, or  _ somehow,  _ come up with something  _ worse  _ on their own. Euphie and Mila meeting practically screamed oncoming disaster. It couldn’t end in anything but fire and tears.

“Euphie? Who’s that?” Viktor raised an eyebrow, cocking his head. If Yuuri were another person, he would swear that the other man seemed to almost be  _ jealous  _ of Euphie.

That was, of course, ridiculous. What Viktor had to be jealous about, regarding Euphie, Yuuri had no idea.

“She’s a friend of mine from the Bolshoi,” Yuuri said, pulling up a photo from Euphie’s Instagram. It was a nice photo, taken just before Yuuri had left for Japan for the holidays. They were both rosy-cheeked, winded from running around, Euphie’s pale purple scarf wound loosely around her neck. “I invited her to come ice skating since it’s our day off. Unless - unless that isn’t alright?” He flushed, tugging on a loose thread in his scarf. “I - I asked Yakov, and he  _ seemed  _ alright with it, but - oh, are you not alright with that?”

Viktor balked, shaking his head. “No, it’s alright, it’s alright! I look forwards to meeting her.” Giving Yuuri one last smile, he skated off, looping around in large, wide patterns.

Yuuri buried his head in his arms, and groaned.

* * *

“Sorry I’m late - Saint Petersburg traffic is  _ terrible,  _ did you know? Even the subway was delayed today.” Euphie burst into the rink, heeled boots clicking against the linoleum floors. Her cheeks were stained pink, and her hair was in disarray - but she still managed to look impeccable, despite that. 

“It’s fine, I understand.” Yuuri paused, looking her up and down. “But, you know, we  _ are  _ skating indoors, Euphie, but I think it’s still a little cold for that.”

She frowned, smoothing down the denim of her shorts. “It’s fine,  _ Yuratchka.  _ I’ve got leggings on underneath, and my scarf. You worry  _ too  _ much.” Reaching over, Euphie tweaked his nose, before settling down to put on the skates she had rented.

“Don’t be surprised when you get sick, then.” Yuuri murmured, bending down to tighten the laces of his skates. They were a little old, and Yuuri hadn’t used them since December, when he’d gone skating with Yuuko and her triplets at the Ice Castle. “Do you know how to skate? If you don’t, I can help you.”

Euphie rolled her eyes. “Listen,  _ mon petit petard,  _ I might not have gone skating in whatever free time I had in between dance lessons, but I think I can figure it on my own.” She shook her head at him fondly. “Stop being a mother hen,  _ Yuratchka.  _ I’m a big girl.”

Yuuri flushed, but rolled his eyes regardless. “I know that, Euphie. But if you fall enough today, you’ll be cursing up a storm during Monday’s rehearsal, and  _ I’ll  _ be the one listening to it.”

“I will  _ not! _ ”

Yuuri looked at her, as if to say,  _ really?,  _ and Euphie scowled, turning away from him, her nose in the air. They both knew that she most definitely would be - it had always been like that. Nasty hangover?  _ Complain to Yuuri.  _ Bad breakup?  _ Complain to Yuuri.  _ Feeling really crappy during rehearsal?  _ Hang off of Yuuri and complain.  _ It was, by now, a predictable cycle.

“Whatever.” Waddling over to him, Euphie leant over the divider, tracking his gaze across the ice. “Oh,  _ I see, _ ” she laughed, nudging him with her shoulder. “The infamous Viktor Nikiforov himself!” She leant in conspiratorially, and whispered, “you’re right. He  _ does  _ look much cuter in person.”

“ _ Euphie! _ ” Yuuri shrieked, shoving her away. “It’s - it’s not  _ like that. _ Besides,” he added, tugging on his scarf. “Even if there were  _ any chance  _ of something happening, he’s out of my league.”  

“Bull _ shit,”  _ Euphie said, poking him in the cheek. “You could probably bench press that boy.”

“I probably  _ can’t,  _ thank you. But even if I  _ could,  _ what does that have to do with what we’re talking about?”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “It’d probably, y'know -” She makes an obscene gesture with her hands. 

“Oh my god, be  _ quiet. _ ” Yuuri slapped a hand over her mouth frantically, looking around to check if anyone had just heard what Euphie had been about to say. “Let’s just - let’s just get on the ice.”

Euphie smiled, walking after him. “You’re in  _ love, Yuratchka!  _ Don’t suppress it, let it  _ free! _ ”

“I’m  _ not! _ ”

It had just been a week.  _ After all _ , Yuuri reasoned,  _ falling in love so quickly just wasn’t done. _

* * *

Viktor looked up from where he was skating lazy figure eights, as Yuuri and his friend - Euphie - burst out onto the ice, the blonde woman clinging to the wall with the ferocity of a beginner. Yuuri is laughing, head thrown back, eyes bright and impossibly brown. His friend seems to be yelling at him in rapid English, and Yuuri just skates in a smooth arc around her, hands clasped behind his back. 

_ God, _ he’s gorgeous. Viktor knows that he’s in deep, the moment something pangs and twinges the moment Yuuri’s eyes begin to brighten and glimmer, and when he closes his eyes, it’s all he can see.

It’s enough to drive him  _ insane.  _ Because, the thing is? Yuuri is legitimately someone Viktor wants to keep around for a  _ while.  _ It’s not like the one time fling he and Christophe Giacometti. It’s not sexual (it maybe is, just a little, but it’s  _ more than that _ ), and Viktor can’t find it in him to treat Yuuri the same way he would a simple one night stand, because if anything, Yuuri means more to him than just that.

It’s not even like he’s known him for that long, but it’s built into a terrifying monster of emotions, from the moment Yuuri smiled softly at him, to every little touch, accidental or not between them, the intensity of his gorgeous  _ Ludus,  _ to the way he patiently and eagerly tries to help Yurio the best he can, and it’s grown into something Viktor can no longer put into any words other than, well,  _ love. _

It’s still too soon to be love, however, so Viktor stores the word in his rib cage, fluttering a hopeful, and tucks it away for another day.

“Yuuri! Is this your friend?” With a smile, Viktor skates up to where Yuuri is amusedly watching his blonde friend grasp for stability upon the ice.

She opens her mouth, eyes decidedly mischievous, before Yuuri cuts in, something akin to panic flashing across his face. “Yes! This is Euphie. We dance together in the Bolshoi Ballet.”

Euphie cocks an eyebrow at Yuuri, and a silent conversation passes between them. She turns to him, and beams brightly. “That’s me. Euphie DuBois, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Viktor Nikiforov.”

She eyes his hand, her hands tightening around the railing. “I  _ would  _ shake your hand, but as you can see,” she nods towards the railing and her feet. “I am in  _ quite _ the predicament.”

“Let me show you how to skate, then,” Viktor offers, holding both hands out. “Yuuri can help us, right?”

“Of course.”

Euphie glares at Yuuri balefully as she shakily takes Viktor’s hands. “He’s laughing at me.”

“I am  _ not, _ ” Yuuri protests, smiling. “I’m just reserving the right to say  _ I told you so,  _ later, when we get dinner.”

“Dinner! Right.” Her grin turns downright devious - enough to send chills down Viktor’s spine. By the look on Yuuri’s face, this isn’t exactly something good. “Say,  _ Viktor, _ ” she all but purrs out his name, “how would you feel about coming to dinner with  _ Yuratchka  _ and I? Yurio and his lady friend - y’know the one lifting him over her head - are invited too, of course.”

Viktor isn’t exactly certain if this is a trap, but it  _ feels  _ like one. But, of course, Euphie is Yuuri’s  _ friend.  _ Viktor isn’t going to turn her down, especially since he’s  enjoying her company thus far.

“Of course! I would be  _ glad  _ to,” he responds.

Euphie looks downright gleeful, as Yuuri groans softly behind them.

Viktor has...probably made a mistake.

It doesn’t matter. He can regret it later, in his apartment, with a nice glass of hard vodka, an old, cheesy ice skating film, and Makkachin curled up around him like a living heater.

It’s  _ fine.  _ It really is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _brisé:_ a jump consisting of an _assemblé_ with a beat of the feet/legs, changing to fifth position and back again in the air before landing.  
>  _assemblé:_ a jump that lands on two feet.  
>  _chassé:_ quite literally, "chased." a slide forward, backward, or sideways with both legs bent, then springing into the air with legs straight and together. this can be done either in a gallop or by pushing the leading foot along the floor in a _plié_ to cause an upward spring.  
>  _cabriole:_ an allegro step in which the extended legs are beaten in the air. the working leg is thrust into the air, the underneath leg follows and beats against the first leg, sending it higher. the landing is then made on the underneath leg.  
>  _pas de cheval:_ a movement of the leg to _cou-de-pied_ and sharply out to _pointe tendu_ through a _petit développé_.  
>  _cou-de-pied:_ position of the arched working foot raised to, on, or around the ankle.  
>  _tendu:_ gradually extending the working leg to the front _(tendu devant)_ , side, or back, passing from flat to _demi-pointe_ to point where only the toes are touching the floor _(tendu à terre)_ , or only the pointed toes are elevated. _(en l'air)_  
>  _développé:_ a movement in which the leg is lifted to _retiré_ and then fully extended outward, passing through _attitude_.  
>  _retiré:_ a position of the working leg in which the leg is raised turned out and bent at the knee to the side so that the toe is located directly in front of or behind the supporting knee.  
>  _attitude:_ a position in which a dancer stands on one leg (the supporting leg) while the other leg (working leg) is raised at hip height and turned out with knee bent to form an angle of approximately 90° between the thigh and the lower leg.
> 
> _mon petit petard_ basically means "my little firecracker" in french. (if this is wrong, hmu! i don't speak french. at all.) and _yura_ and _yuratchka_ are affectionate nicknames for someone in russia with the name 'yuri.' Yasuomi Akimoto is a real _danseur_ in the Tokyo Ballet! 
> 
> \+ introducing euphie! she's one of the oc's mentioned. i hope you guys like her, because i really do. i'll be updating with a link once i finish up her sketches and post them on tumblr.   
> \+ as well, the lovely jun drew me fanart???i haven't gotten permission to post any of it, so i'm not going to??but it's sooo good and honestly, i feel so spoiled. 
> 
> ok, so, that's all from me for this week! thank you all so much for all your kudos and comments, and please drop kudos and comments if you liked this chapter and want to yell about yoi with me!


	5. interlude: a drunken glissando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> viktor's a little drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wOW 10K+ HITS AND 1K+ KUDOS???? this is the best christmas present ever, thank you so much. 
> 
> how about that episode twelve, huh??? im dead. dead, i tell you. 
> 
> anyways, sorry this is late, school is, well, hell. thats it. its hell. 
> 
> song for the chapter to be added when i've got a bit more time. 
> 
> hAPPY BIRTHDAY VIKTOR!!!!!
> 
> enjoy!!

_(_ Glissando: to slide between two notes. _)_

* * *

The ice is smooth under Yuuri's skates, as he glides around in loose, lazy loops, watching Euphie skate unsteadily, Viktor close to her, a smile stretching his lips into a loose and lazy heart. 

Yuuri has to look away from them. He’s rarely seen Viktor this...at ease, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he isn’t competing this year, (and Yuuri only learned this from Yurio two days ago, and the younger seems disgruntled about something else, and maybe it’s just Yuuri, but it feels as if there is something more to this than just Viktor feeling as if he is too old. It might, however, just be him.) or if it’s something like stress. 

Some twisted part of Yuuri finds it funny, and in a way, incredibly humbling, that someone like Viktor can get stressed as he does. But he also supposes that he can sympathize. Yuuri is nowhere near as accomplished as Viktor is, and his achievements pale marvelously in comparison to what Viktor has done, and what he can still do, could still do if he truly felt like it, at that in and of itself is terribly humbling too. 

Yuuri skates through another set of loop-de-loops, and listens to weak, tinny pop music spilling out from Euphie’s phone. It’s a fast beat, pulsing and alive, and if Yuuri were a better skater - and not afraid of falling flat on his ass - he’d try to truly skate to it, but he’s not a skater. Maybe in another life, but certainly not this one. 

Let Euphie do all the falling for today. Yuuri’s perfectly fine with keeping his ass off the ice, thank you.

* * *

Dinner is a casual affair. They’re all filing into a sushi and karaoke bar (one that Yuuri didn’t even know _existed_ ) and Yurio is arguing with Mila over some kind of video game meta that Yuuri knows he’ll never understand, no matter how many Wikipedia articles he scrolls through. 

“Back in Japan,” Yuuri says, voice pensive, eyes locked firmly onto the emerging starlight, “There are _izakaya_ , and they’re a lot like this.” He nods at the men and women drinking around low standing tables, at the dim lighting that casts a sultry mood over the whole pub. “My older sister went out to them a lot when I was still in high school.” 

Euphie is gesturing a waiter over, rattling off menu items. “Come back later, and we’ll order drinks then,” she says, and she gestures widely at their motley group, winking at the waiter. “Not all of us can drink like Russians, you know.” 

Yuuri fails to hold back a laugh. He’s drunk Pyotr under a table before. Euphie whips her head around to glare at him, and he holds his hands in front of him, a clear sign of surrender. “I didn’t say anything,” he protests, between laughs. 

“You know what you’re doing,” Euphie complains. “Stop making my life _hard_ , Yuuri.” 

Mila, from the other side of their round table grins, and it’s slippery smooth, like silk, and full of mischief and fire and it’s everything Yuuri has ever feared. She leans forwards, propping her cheek up with the palm of her hand, a smiles, slow and scary. 

(Yuuri hasn’t known fear until today. Not until _this_.) 

“I know, right?” Mila pokes Yurio, digging a finger in just below his ribcage, and the teenager howls, glaring at Mila, who just laughs at him, patting the top of his head in a sisterly gesture. Yurio hisses again, looking, for all intents and purposes, like a surly teenager. “Men, am I right?”

Some part of Yuuri feels bad for Yurio - he’s the youngest, amidst a table full of adults. It must be hard. 

Euphie laughs with Mila, and suddenly, Yuuri regrets ever introducing them. (He didn’t _really_ introduce them, but the fact of the matter is that he’s the reason they’re all here, so yes, it is his fault. By the look on Yurio’s face, he’s sure the teenager knows this too, and Yuuri wonders how _hard_ he’s going to pay for this. Viktor looks a little pale too, at the sight of the two women chattering like they’ve known each other for years. 

Grimly, Yuuri realizes that this can only end in flames. They’re all _doomed._ )

* * *

“We’re all going to die,” Viktor declares, as he and Yuuri are waiting by the bar for drinks. Yurio is sulking at the table, because he’s legally a minor, and therefore isn’t allowed to drink, no matter how much he claims that he’ll need it to make it through the night sane. 

Several bar patrons look back, alarm clear on their faces, and Yuuri immediately jumps in to do damage control. 

“No we’re _not_ ,” he hisses, after apologizing. There’s a pause, and Viktor gives Yuuri a look that very clearly says that he’s fooling absolutely _no one._ “Alright, maybe a little,” Yuuri acquiesces, sighing. 

“Introducing them was a mistake,” Viktor continues cheerfully, sliding further up the line. “They’ll set the rink on fire, and Yurio will laugh at both you and me, because he called it in advance.” 

Yuuri sidles next to Viktor, and feels his ears heat with the close proximity. There’s not a lot of space by the bar, and Viktor smells like green apples and lime, and the cologne dabbed along the curves and concaves of his neck. Yuuri could get drunk off of the scent of Viktor alone. It’s becoming problematic, quickly. “That seems a bit over dramatic,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Besides, Euphie believes in psychological damage. Not property damage.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

That...probably did not come out right. Yuuri runs a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew, and groans. “She’s not one for destroying property.” 

Viktor blinks, once, twice. “Am I better off pretending that I didn’t hear the first part of that?” 

“Probably, yes.” 

“Okay!” He claps his hands together. “Let’s never speak about that again. Oh, look. We can order drinks now. Let’s go.” Viktor clamps a hand down over Yuuri’s wrist, and walks off to the bartender. 

Yuuri wants to tell Viktor that he can’t drink away his problems. 

(He doesn’t.)

* * *

Viktor is _not_ drunk. Really, he isn’t. The correct term would be tipsy, and though Viktor is tipsy, he’s _Russian,_ so of course his alcohol tolerance would be high. (In reality, it really isn’t. It really, really isn’t. This is only Viktor’s fourth drink, and the world is all the more tolerable for it. At least the music sucks less now.) 

But he’s distracted. 

They’re still at the pub, and Viktor is leaning against Yuuri, who’s drawing shapeless figures in soy sauce with his chopsticks. And Yuuri - Yuuri is _always_ a distraction for Viktor. He’s a draw, an open flame to a moth, and Viktor is so warm against him, but he’s _burning._ It’s too much. A sensory overload. 

Yuuri smells like green tea, and something fresh and floral, and his hair is soft where it brushes against Viktor’s cheek. He looks up blearily, blinking in confusion as the strands brush gently across his eyes. Yuuri’s hair is longer than it is in photos Viktor has seen of him on the Bolshoi Ballet’s roster, and on the USAIBC website. It straddles the line between shaggy and long, strands curling around his ears and the base of his neck. 

Viktor wants to kiss the nape of Yuuri’s neck. He wants to run his hands through Yuuri’s hair, to bury himself in Yuuri and never come out. Viktor wants to drown in this man, and it’s just so _problematic_ , because these feelings are unfamiliar. Viktor isn’t used to wanting permanence in romance. He’s used to fast paced affairs, where the fire is doused the moment he stumbles out of the bed, dirty and spent. Viktor isn’t used to being soft. To wanting something soft, something lasting. 

“Soft,” he murmurs, words round and slurred. 

“What?” Yuuri looks down to Viktor, brushing his hair out of Viktor’s face. His smile is gentle, and Viktor feels like a child again, looking at his mother, who was his sun, his moon, his stars. Viktor feels soft, in a way he hasn’t felt since she passed away, feels like his hard edges are smoothing out, if only just for this moment, and Viktor wants to bottle this feeling and keep it forever. He wants this to be his eternity, this forever in Yuuri’s warm smile, and the scent of green tea and something floral, framed in the low lighting of the pub, the noise around them drowned to a low murmur. 

“You...you…” Viktor can’t find the right words, and he flounders for a moment, frustrated. The words don’t come, and Viktor is drunk, so it’s alright, he’ll have another day for those words. The words will come easier once he’s not so drunk, and Viktor is secure in that knowledge, so he shakes his head, and sighs. “Forgot,” he admits, and closes his eyes. 

Yuuri laughs, hoarse and quiet, and Euphie asks him something in English, and Viktor is too drunk to register, so he bobs comfortably between sleep and wakefulness. Yuuri absently begins to run his fingers - long and spindly, and Viktor thinks that his mother would call them pianist fingers - through Viktor’s hair, and the world blurs at the edges. 

(Viktor wakes up the next day with a pounding head, and turns to see a glass of water on his night table. There are three tablets of aspirin next to the water glass, and Viktor doesn’t touch any of it. He lies back in bed, and stares up at the ceiling of his apartment, and listens to the click of Makkachin’s nails against the hardwood flooring. 

He brings a hand up to his hair, reverent and slow, closes his eyes, and remembers. Makkachin jumps into bed with him, and Viktor runs his hands through the poodle’s curly fur. It’s one of those days.)

* * *

“Vitya, this is Aunt Evgeniya.” Mother leads him by the wrist, skating smoothly across the ice, and Viktor is unsteady on his feet, trying the best he can not to imitate Bambi. From the look on Aunt Evgeniya’s face, he’s not succeeding. “She’s going to teach you to skate. Aren’t you excited?” Mother claps her hands together, and Viktor smiles too, because he doesn’t really get it, but she’s excited, so he’ll be happy too. 

“Katyushka...he’s so _small._ Are you sure?” 

His mother bends down, smoothing his bangs away from his eyes. Viktor is four, and therefore _too big_ to be doted on this much in the public eye, so he whines and complains as Mother pins his bangs back. “Vitya will be a great skater. I can see it.” 

Viktor can _feel_ the skepticism rolling off this woman. “I wanna skate!” He declares, stomping a bladed foot against the ice. It’s in poor form, because he loses his footing, and falls flat on the ice. 

It’s cold! Viktor tries to jump up, but can’t, and now his butt is cold, and Aunt Evgeniya looks like she’s about to laugh at him. 

“Alright, alright, I see what you mean, Katyushka,” she says, bending down. Her hair, tied up and twisted into a softly falling ponytail sways behind her, and Viktor thinks, that one day, he wants hair like that. “Up you go, Vitya.” She lifts him up by the armpits, and dusts his bottom and legs off. “First things first.” Evgeniya points at the divot Viktor left behind with his skate. “None of that. You’ll respect the ice, and it’ll respect you. Got it, Vitya?” 

Viktor nods. He doesn’t break the ice again.

* * *

“Soft. What is that supposed to even _mean_?” Yuuri leans back in the wine red chaise in Euphie’s living room, rubbing his hand down his face. “He just said ‘soft,’ and then proceeded to make no sense whatsoever for the rest of the night!” 

Mila laughs, swirling around the champagne in her shot glass. Yuuri’s not sure when it was that Euphie started keeping champagne in her kitchens, but he’s not going to complain. To each their own. 

Euphie rolls her eyes. “I have _no_ idea. Mila?” 

She tips the shot glass back, draining it of all champagne, and lets out a sigh. Yurio is asleep on Euphie’s couch, and Viktor is passed out in his own apartment, so Mila declared that they’d be having a ladies’ night. Yuuri finds that all she means is that, if they weren’t drunk already, they would be by the end of the night. Or at one in the morning. 

“Viktor isn’t...ugh what’s the word,” Mila groans, and tilts her head back. “He’s not _soft._ He’s got the whole playboy thing going on, even though _that_ hasn’t happened since last year’s Worlds.” She sighs, and pulls her legs underneath her, blowing her bangs out from her eyes. “I don’t know _what_ he meant by that. It’s probably good though. He does like you, you know.” 

“ _What._ ” 

Mila grins, and when Yuuri turns his head, Euphie is giving him the exact same Look. “You two are _hopeless_ ,” she declares. “He was leaning. On you. And trying to play with your _hair_ , Yuuri.” Euphie sets her glass down and reaches over to pinch Yuuri’s cheeks. “You sweet, sweet summer child.” 

“I was born in November.” It comes out garbled, and his cheeks are starting to hurt. 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

Mila laughs, and Euphie turns to look. And Yuuri _knows,_ oh god he knows. Euphie’s ears are pink, which is basically her equivalent of going completely red. 

“Oh _I_ see how it is,” he says, and revenge is so, so sweet. 

“Shut. Up.” 

On the couch, Yurio turns over in his sleep with a muffled grumble. 

The night is young. They’re not drunk yet.

* * *

Euphie stumbles into the ballet studio at twelve the next day, sunglasses firmly over her eyes. 

“You look like death,” Yuuri informs her, as he stretches across the barre. It’s now cold enough to warrant leg warmers, even though Euphie gives the black things a death glare over the lenses of her sunglasses. 

“Fucking legwarmers, are you _shitting_ me?” She curses, throwing herself onto the floor. “I didn’t drag my hungover ass to the ballet studios at noon to see you in those things. Didn’t I burn them?” 

Yuuri shrugs, and switches his legs. “You definitely _tried_ to.” 

Euphie groans, and unscrews her water bottle. “Fuck,” she mutters around the rim. “Those things deserve to burn.” 

“They’re _warm._ ” 

“Warmer than your soul, that’s for sure,” Euphie grumbles. “How the fuck are you not hungover? Fucking unnatural.” 

Yuuri takes his leg off the barre, and settles into a straddle on the floor. “ _I_ ,” he pauses, reaching for his left foot, “was wise enough not to drink my weight in alcohol last night.” 

She moans, pulling her scarf up above her nose. “No stop. _God_ , please, stop talking about alcohol. I’m going to hurl.” 

“Alright,” Yuuri says, mild as milk. “So, how about we talk about your crush on Mila, then?” 

Euphie’s head rockets up, fast enough that her sunglasses go flying to the far corner of the studio. “ _What the fuck?_ No!” 

“Really?” He wheedles, bending his legs into a butterfly. “Because that blush last night didn’t really seem -” 

“We’re supposed to be talking about _you_ and Nikiforov. Not me!” She wails, banging her head against the wall. “Stop turning the tables on me, you evil, evil man.” 

Yuuri laughs, and stands up. “If you want me to stop bothering you about it, then man the sounddock for me.” 

“Blackmail and coercion! I call foul play, Katsuki,” Euphie declares, but she’s smiling, and standing up regardless, and Yuuri can feel a few more pieces click into place in the puzzle. It’s a little easier to breathe. 

“Alright, so then, let’s talk about that _display_ between you and Viktor last night, shall we?” 

Yuuri trips over his own feet. Euphie’s resulting cackle is wholly unrepentant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no new terminology today!!!! wow for once, am i right??? 
> 
> ok honestly, episode twelve murdered me, this is my ghost speaking. you should aLSO check out this one shot i posted yesterday - [forget-me-nots](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9036446) \- if you like being sad. its sad. 
> 
> anywho, merry christmas/happy hannukah/kwanza/whatever you celebrate!! as usual, please leave comments and kudos if you liked this chapter.


	6. second movement: adagio malinconia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it truly does take two to tango.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so ah, it's been a week or two...sorry. but thank ya'll for all the kudos and the hits! it really does mean a lot to me. 
> 
> before you delve into this new chapter (which is 1k+ longer than usual) i'm obliged to give you guys this warning:
> 
> in this chapter, it's heavily implied/shown that viktor is suffering from depression. he's showing a great deal of self-negativity, and a lot of the behaviors being shown (deliberately pushing yourself too hard, purposely depriving yourself of sleep) are fairly unhealthy coping methods that are shown by both viktor _and_ yuuri. if this is a triggering thing for you, you can always pop over to my tumblr - [starbxrn](starbxrn.tumblr.com) \- and send me an ask for a chapter synopsis! i'd be glad to provide. 
> 
> in other words, i finally kickstart our plot. _finally._
> 
> song for the chapter is [ el tango de roxanne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egYUpyU-GxU&index=3&list=PL58bJjbx9ENUwZ4941LX-bc2l8_sxdW_o) from moulin rouge. (one of my fa vorite songs of all time) 
> 
> \+ a big thank you to my wonderful beta, solidarity! 
> 
> enjoy the chapter!

( _Adagio: A tempo having slow movement; restful at ease._

 _Malinconia: italian; melancholy_ )

* * *

Viktor slouches into the rink at five AM on Monday, bleary eyed and a little hungover from his impromptu pity party the other night. After years of attempting to drink his stress away - and failing miserably, mind you - he figured that he would’ve probably learned to know better. 

Alas, he has no such luck.

He would normally lament on the irony of man, but Viktor doesn't have the patience to wax philosophical garbage when he’s this hungover.

Viktor laces up his skates and steps onto the ice, wobbling as the full force of his headache comes back with a vengeful fury. There’s music pouring through him regardless, and the call of the ice hasn’t been this potent since… since he was a child, and the world was as simple as his mother’s hands on his shoulders, and his aunt’s throaty voice teaching him how to dance across the ice. 

He holds the memory close to him, and runs with it. Weaves it into his improvised mess, lets it guide him across the ice, and lets it _sing_ through his blood and bones. 

_Stammino Viccino_ , Viktor thinks. _Stay close to me, and do not leave._

If only it were that simple.

* * *

“You’re going to skate yourself to death, you know.” 

Aunt Evgeniya is as brash and as loud as always, and Viktor keeps skating, because if he skates, the world is a little more tolerable, and Aunt Evgeniya says that makes the ice his own personal equivalent of an alcohol addiction. Viktor thinks that maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the ice could dull his pain, like an ice pack, or a hot compress, or his mother’s delicate fingers across the piano, eking out a melody that he’d never heard before. 

Viktor wants to forget. 

Aunt Evgeniya skates over to him, and pulls him into herself. She’s warm, and she smells like smoke - _what an awful habit,_ Viktor thinks. 

He cries, because now he sounds like Mother, and Aunt Evgeniya holds him tight enough that Viktor wonders how her willowy arms haven’t yet snapped. 

It’s just them now. Viktor wonders if it will be enough to ease the ache.

* * *

The day passes in a blur. Viktor can’t remember how many times he’s clapped at Yuri to keep _up_ with the tempo of _Agape_ ; to match his footwork with the emotion, but it’s not clicking. The younger boy is tired, that much is clear. 

Everyone knows that if you try to skate a routine while tired, you’ll learn it wrong. 

So Viktor sends Yuri home, despite his protesting, but it’s so painfully obvious that he’s pushing himself farther than he can go. Yuri is not Viktor, and Yuri shouldn’t become Viktor, because Viktor is tired and weary, graying and lost. 

“Go home,” Viktor tells Yuri, running a gloved hand through his hair. “You can’t skate like this. Take the day off.” 

“I can still skate, Viktor!” Yuri protests, eyes blazing, bright and angry. “Don’t fucking baby me. I’m not a _child._ I’m not weak.” Even as he says this, the harsh rink lighting and the sunlight highlight the bags collecting under his eyes, and the tired line his body paints. 

Viktor won’t budge. Not on this. “Go _home_ , Yuri,” he says softly. “Get some sleep, and we cans start early tomorrow morning.” 

Yuri looks as if he’s about to throw a fit (and he reminds Viktor of himself at that age, just angrier, but then again, with all his energy devoted to skating and smiling, Viktor can’t remember having enough energy to be mad about much of anything.) but Mila cuts in, and her mouth is in a quiet line. She locks eyes with Viktor, and she’s so much younger than him, but it’s clear that she knows that today is one of _those_ days. 

“Come on,” she says, pushing Yurio by the back. “If you can’t even listen to your coach, what kind of skater are you, huh, _kotyonok_?” Mila is good at goading Yuri, riling him up, and she knows that. 

“Fuck _off,_ ” Yuri mutters, and if that isn’t a testament to how tired he is, Viktor doesn’t know what is, and lets himself be escorted off the ice by Mila. 

_Thank you,_ Viktor mouths after Mila. 

She winks in return. Despite the solemnity of the whole affair, as Viktor glides back onto the ice, he feels a little bubble of _something_ form in his chest, and the Biellmann spins begin to feel a bit like flying again.

* * *

The call comes in at seven at night. Viktor’s about to turn in. For all that he pushes and pushes against him, he _does_ know his limits, and over twelve hours of nearly non-stop practice is pushing it a lot. 

“Hello?”

 _”Viktor! Good, Mila didn’t give me the wrong number - yeah, I’m talking to him right now!”_ The background of the call sounds like city life, muffled and fuzzy voices, the sound of cars on the road, and Mila’s voice, bleeding faintly through. 

It takes Viktor a moment to place the voice, but the faint inflection of it, and the airiness of her tone is suddenly familiar when he does. “Euphie?” 

_”The one and only.”_ She pauses. _”Viktor, I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind heading over to the dance studios to get Yuuri?”_ She sighs, and Viktor gets the sudden sense that this is a familiar song and dance between her and Yuuri. _”He’s been in the studio since six in the morning, and I don’t think he’s got any intentions of leaving until midnight.”_

It’s not like Euphie really needs to say anymore. Minako had gone home early yesterday, Yuuri having gotten up early to see her out, and they’d all gone out for the night. If Viktor remembers correctly, this means that Yuuri has only gotten a solid four to five hours of sleep, on top of the exhaustion he doubtlessly was shouldering yesterday. 

Viktor finds himself both scared and awed by Yuuri’s drive and stamina. It’s frightening, to hear how far the man is willing to push himself in pursuit of his art. It reminds Viktor a bit of himself, but he wonders if that’s truly a good thing at this point. There’s a healthy pushing, and then there’s what Viktor has a tendency to do.

“Ah -” He’d forgotten, for a moment, that he was on a call. “Yes. If you text me the address, I’ll go pick him up.” 

_”Would you?”_ Euphie breathes out, and the relief in her voice is tangible. _”Viktor, thank you.”_

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures her, smile sliding onto his face. It is, quite literally, the least he can do. “Have fun.” 

The dial tone is all that echoes back.

* * *

The strains of a latin song reverberate through the entire studio as Viktor weaves his way through, searching every room, if only to find them empty. No doubt, that latin song is what Yuuri is dancing too, but if only he could _find it,_ rather than just trying to cock his ears and follow the tune like a blind man. 

With an irritated huff, Viktor ducks down the next corridor. A single light shines on, in a room to the far left, bright amongst all the darkness of eight at night. 

The tones of the piece are rich and dark, broken in by a husky man’s voice, crooning to Roxanne, and a lighter voice, clearly a younger man, jealous and inane. 

Viktor comes to a stop outside of the glass windows. The studio Yuuri is in is clearly the largest of them all - at least from what Viktor’s seen - and as Yuuri turns across the floor, Viktor is struck with a heavy reminder that Yuuri is, undisputably, currently one of the best - if not _the best_ dancer in the current competitive dance scene. 

His movements are sharp and precise, sultry and beckoning, and they tell a story - as so many good dances do. 

But above anything, story be damned, Viktor finds himself drawn to Yuuri himself. It’s like a kind of magnetism, and Viktor can’t bring himself to look away. 

Yuuri’s eyes are intense, a dark, rich mocha, darker than Viktor can ever remember seeing them, and sweat courses down his lines and planes, tracking cloudy patterns against Yuuri’s lily-pale skin. He’s not en pointe, but his pointe shoes lie carefully atop their slip case, and Yuuri’s feet are bare, aside from the foot thongs that protect very little of his feet. His figure is sharp and loose, arching and curving with every _chaînés_ he snaps into, and the sweeping, astonishing _battement en rond_ that he all but flies into, and Viktor swears, if that were a skating jump, it would be a quad. 

Yuuri flies through the air, carried by something Viktor cannot see, and his hair is wild around his face, dark as the night time, loose from the elastic. 

The music carries on, and as the last notes peeter out, and Yuuri ends, reaching for a woman - for _Roxanne_ , Viktor finds that he is almost sad to see the dance end. 

Everything comes to an end - most of all, dance. 

Viktor taps his fingers against the glass to catch Yuuri’s attention. Yuuri starts, dropping his water bottle with a sound loud enough to startle them both, but smiles at Viktor nonetheless, and beckons him in. 

(It’s hard to miss the way Yuuri fights to keep his posture straight and tight, now that he’s not dancing, and it’s easy to see the way the shadows gather under his eyes, and the way he sucks in every breath, wheezing almost imperceptibly through them. 

Yuuri’s pushing _too hard,_ and Viktor wonders if he’s going to reach his breaking point.)

* * *

“That was gorgeous,” Viktor says, perched atop the cube shaped stool - it might be a table, but he can’t tell. “Is that for the Prix de la Benoise?” 

Yuuri chokes on his water. 

“No, _no_ ,” he splutters, wiping water from his face. “The Prix Benoise isn’t really the _place_ for a piece like Roxanne. It's for Yurio. For - for his free skate.” 

Viktor can feel his eyebrows practically rocket to his hairline. Lilia has begun to take over Yuri’s more intensive training, if only because Yuuri has started training more vigorously for the Prix de la Benoise, but Viktor hadn't thought that Yuuri would be choreographing Yuri’s free skate. 

“Could I see the whole thing?” Tentatively, Viktor slides off the table-stool, landing with both feet on the floor. “I only saw the very end.” 

With a bittersweet smile, Yuuri shakes his head and shoulders out, and pads over to the sounddock. “How about, I show you the routine Lilia and I _originally_ had planned?” 

“Why not?” Viktor says, leaning back onto the cube. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and settles back.

* * *

Viktor is in the worst of positions. He hates this piece, because it’s such a melancholy _Agape_ , just like Yuri’s short skate, but the strains of piano and cello are strong enough that it’s not so much melancholy, as it is grief. 

It feels like a fugue. Viktor is certain it’s supposed to be something else, but he’s too _tired_ to see it as anything but the final, solemn rings of a church bell. 

But it’s beautiful, and Viktor can see _how_ this would be perfectly suited towards Yuri, because it’s infuriating. The image is there, and it’s so different from what Viktor sees, and maybe, if he wasn’t such a cynic - washed out, gray - he’d be able to see it. 

Yuuri _grande jetés_ across the room, and Viktor sees a camel spin in its place. 

He jumps in an _brisé_ , and Viktor sees a quad toe loop. 

He flourishes his hands, arches his back, and Viktor sees his mother. 

The world is blurring at the edges, and the music sounds as if it’s playing above water, and Viktor is _drowning._

“...tor! _Viktor!_ ” 

He's on the floor. Viktor isn't certain how he got on the floor. The music has stopped, and Yuuri is hovering over him, hair shaggy, eyes concerned. His hand has stopped centimeters away from Viktor’s face, and the color has run from his cheeks. 

“Viktor, you fell off the table.” Yuuri’s voice is gentle, trying to be strong, but the tremble is clear enough. Viktor finds that he appreciates it regardless. “Does anything hurt?” 

“No.” 

Yuuri sucks in a deep breath and nods, and folding his legs into a criss cross, sits besides Viktor. “Is something...is something the matter?” 

_Everything is the matter,_ Viktor wants to say. However, the words stick to the roof of his mouth like peanut butter, and he settles for a sigh. 

“When - when you’re ready,” and Viktor isn't really sure, but it feels like he's being given an out, “we could...talk?” 

There are a lot of things Viktor wants to say, in that moment, but his voice fails him, and he just swallows thickly and nods. “Thank you. I’d like that.” 

Yuuri hums in response, and gently, brushes Viktor’s bang out of his eye. “Much better.” He smiles shakily at Viktor, tucking the short hair behind the other man’s ear. 

Viktor touches his ear. Yuuri rubs his chin and looks away, cheeks and ears turning red. “Thank you.” 

Yuuri stands up, brushing his shorts and tights off. “It's no problem,” he says. Yuuri turns on the speakers again, and begins to dance to the same, dark Latin song once more.

* * *

It's nearly midnight when Viktor remembers why he’s at the studio. _Sorry, Euphie,_ he thinks. _Looks like Yuuri wins this round._

“Yuuri.” Viktor raises himself from the floor - and _ouch,_ maybe he should have done some more stretches before he left the rink - and begins to hobble over to the sounddock, when it becomes obvious that Yuuri can't hear him. 

“Why’d you shut it off?” Yuuri whirls on Viktor, like a vengeful siren, hair wild and dark and loose. The strands are now long enough to reach Yuuri’s shoulders, barely brushing the curve of them, and Viktor vaguely realizes, in some far off space in his mind, that he is _fucked._ “Viktor, I have to practice.” 

“You’ve been here since six in the morning, Yuuri. You need to take a break.” 

Yuuri stares at him for a moment, before clicking his tongue, and muttering a short burst of Japanese. It all sounds rather vengeful, and the only word Viktor recognizes is Euphie’s name. 

“You must be hungry, right?” Viktor coaxes, and this is a song and dance that he and Yakov have done before, and in turn, he’s had to do with Yuri. Now, at half an hour away from midnight, he's having this argument with Yuuri, who always seemed to know exactly when Yuri was getting tired enough to need a break. The entire situation is bleakly humorous. 

“I’m not -” Yuuri pauses as his stomach grumbles, and Viktor watches, wholly amused, as Yuuri goes pleasantly red. 

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Well, I’m not exactly - that is to say, I - _Viktor are you laughing at me?_ ” Yuuri’s hands are firm on his hips, and his eyes are blazing. 

Viktor is _not_ laughing. (He’s not.) He’s definitely not. (Viktor is most definitely laughing.) 

“No,” Viktor lies. “I’m...I’m not.” 

“You are.” 

“Do you want to get something to eat or not?” Viktor says, desperately trying to change the subject. “There’s a small 24 hour not too far from here. We can get something to eat there.” 

Sighing, Yuuri rubs his hands over his face. “Sure. Let me pack up.”

* * *

Yuuri sinks into the cracked leather of a booth in the 24 hour, and silently cracks his toes, flexing them to try and assuage the ache. At this point, almost everything aches beyond what Yuuri can feasibly explain in actual, coherent words, and something inside him acknowledges the fact that he’s probably going to be calling in sick tomorrow. 

And then, of course, Lilia will lecture him on proper self-care. Yuuri nearly bursts into tears just thinking about it. Yes, she cares, and this is how she shows it, but Yuuri just really wants to do anything but sit through another one of Lilia’s lectures. 

“What do you want to order?” Viktor slides the one menu they’d been given down the table. His hair is mussed and there are fly away strands going every which way. The neon lights just outside their booth’s window cast a violently pink tint to Viktor’s silver hair, and Yuuri swers that his eyes are turning purple. 

It’s a true testament to how late it is, that Yuuri finds this extremely funny. 

Looking down at the laminated menu, Yuuri thinks about what his mom would have made at midnight. Probably not katsudon, but maybe pancakes. He could go for blueberry pancakes. Or maybe _syrniki_. 

Tapping his fingers over the typed description for both the pancakes - which are, unfortunately, _not_ blueberry, but whole wheat - and the _syrniki_ with jam, Yuuri blinks tiredly as the Cyrillic blurs together. “What do you think is better at midnight, pancakes, or _syrniki_?” He asks Viktor, propping his cheek up with one hand. 

His glasses are riding up his face now. It’s sort of uncomfortable. 

“Ah...probably pancakes.” Viktor shrugs, and picks up his coffee mug. Yuuri’s is full of tea, rather than coffee, but Yuuri is currently content to watch the steam curl upwards in pleasant patterns and curlicues. “They’d probably sit better overnight.” 

“Huh. You’re probably right. But what if they’re fluffy?” 

“Well,” Viktor says, taking a long pull from his mug. There’s a chip in it on one side, and a small droplet of coffee squeezes out of it when he sets the mug down. “They can’t be heavier than _syrniki_ , can they?” 

“Probably not,” Yuuri admits, and rests his head on the cool tabletop. “Do you know what you want?” 

Viktor nods. Of course he does, Yuuri thinks blearily. He’s obviously more awake. And more capable of coherent thought. He watches as Viktor flags down a waitress, placing an order for the whole wheat pancakes and an order of eggs, sunny side up. 

Yuuri hopes Viktor ordered bacon for himself. It’s probably the most unhealthy thing Viktor will eat all day, but it really seems like a shame to eat sunny side up eggs without bacon. Or toast. 

“I got ham, if that counts,” Viktor offers, gesturing with his coffee. 

Dimly, some part of Yuuri’s sleep deprived brain registers that he said that aloud. The rest of his mind decides that it isn’t important at the moment, and that he should just argue his case. 

“It’s a part of the pig too, but I just,” Yuuri sighs. “I just can’t substitute ham with bacon. It’s like giving someone a...a knockoff watch when they really should just get the real deal.” 

Viktor starts laughing. He’s still laughing when the waitress comes back with their food.

* * *

“In you go.” Warm hands are pulling cool covers over Yuuri, and some part of him thinks that he should _shower_ because he’s sticky and it’s gross. But the bed is so soft, and Yuuri is so tired, and this person’s voice is soothing. It’s slow and sweet, like watching honey drizzle onto pancakes. 

“Stay,” Yuuri murmurs, clutching onto the person’s arm. “S’cold. And s’late.” 

A hand brushes his bangs back. Warm lips press tenderly against Yuuri’s forehead. “Shh. You should go to sleep, Yuuri. You’ve been up all day.” 

“Stay, please,” Yuuri says again, tugging weakly on this person’s arm. “S’late. You can - can crash on the couch. Or something.” His words are slurred, and his eyelids feel like a hundred pounds. 

Yuuri isn’t sure if the voice says anything else in their rich-honey voice, but if they do, he’s too far gone to hear. 

There’s a warm spot on his forehead, and it spreads, warming a trail from his head, down to the tips of his toes. 

It’s the best sleep Yuuri has had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glossary: 
> 
> _chaînés_ : also known as _"chaînés turns,"_ a common abbreviation for _tours chaînés déboulés,_ a series of quick, 360 degree turns that alternate the feet while traveling along a straight line or in a circular path  
>  _battement en rond_ : an alternating side-to-side movement of the working (non-supporting) leg. the one yuuri does is a 540 _battement en rond_ which you can see shown [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7AaZhEOJSY) at 0:21. (its so _cool_ )  
>  _grande jeté_ : a long horizontal jump, starting from one leg and landing on the other. otherwise known as a split in the air. it is most often done forward and usually involves doing full leg splits in mid-air.  
>  _brisé_ : a jump consisting of an _assemblé_ with a beat of the feet/legs, changing to fifth position and back again in the air before landing.
> 
>  _syrniki_ are these cottage cheese filled pancakes that are often eaten in russia with either jam or sour cream. they're supposedly super good! 
> 
> so. announcements. from now on, i'll be posting updates on pdd (and probably general yelling about ballet) on my tumblr! and starting chapter ten i'll probably start another fic? this doesn't, of course, mean the end of pdd because i have a lot more to do with this particular storyline, but it does mean that every other week will probably become the new update schedule. idk if you really care about this though, but yeah heres the heads up. 
> 
> so, thoughts? as usual, kudos and comments are appreciated!


	7. second movement: requiem in e minor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hindsight is 20/20, isn't it? 
> 
> sometimes, you can't stop what's already in motion. no matter how hard you try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok,,,so this took a while... _but_ on a much happier note, i _am_ done with midterms, and am free to write again. finally. no more studying. 
> 
> uh...so...chapter warnings! one of our two main characters goes through a major breakdown. as in, he works himself until he collapses. this is, as a matter of fact, a form of self harm, so a warning for that if you find that triggering. as i offered in the _last_ chapter, my inbox in my tumblr (linked at the end) is always available if you'd rather get a chapter synopsis instead of read the triggering parts! and also, warning for past implied suicide attempts. though it is sad, it is true that young athletes and performers face a _huge_ amount of pressure to succeed throughout their careers, and if you're as good and prominent as viktor nikiforov, well. the pressure has to be even worse. so, warning for that too. (im so sorry if you thought this was going to be fluffy. i am not capable of fluff. everything i touch turns to angst. im the damn angst machine, not yuuri.)
> 
> no song for this chapter! sorry. if you want something to listen to, i'd imagine white noise would suit this chapter extremely well. 
> 
> and i hope you guys enjoy this chapter! (see end notes for a little extra surprise/thingy)

_( requiem: a dirge, hymn, or musical service for the repose of the dead. )_

* * *

They say that hindsight is 20/20. They aren't wrong. 

Later that week, Yuri stares out the window of a Metro car, and thinks, that all the signs were the smallest things. The devil had been in the details. There hadn't been one, huge neon sign pointing to this, and that, perhaps, was the most terrible thing of them all. 

The devil was in the details. The devil had won this round. 

_Fucking hell._

He turns on his phone, a begins to compose a text. 

**russian tiger:** what's the hospital room number im on my way

* * *

Yuuri wakes up in his apartment, sunlight streaming through the sheer of his curtains. His eyes feel like they're stuck together, and his mouth is dry and disgusting. There's no throb and pulse in his temples, and the sun doesn't burn his eyes - though Yuuri doesn't want to see the sunlight, it feels too _early_ to have to face the sun - so it's probably safe to say that he doesn't have a hangover. 

That, and Yuuri was practicing last night. Not drinking. He remembers the dark tones of _Roxanne_ , and the eerie way the piece echoed in the empty studio. The dull ache that seems to seep into his very bones reminds him of the night before as well and - 

Yuuri stops. Slowly, he brushes his hand against his forehead, as if trying to remember the warmth that had blossomed there, amidst his sleep deprived haze. It’s not there, of course. It would be foolish to think it would still be there. (Warmth moves around the body, until equilibrium is achieved. It’s simple homeostasis.) But it sets his heart a flutter, beating fast and hard, and Yuuri lets out a breath. He doesn’t remember enough to know if he’d said something completely humiliating to Viktor, and that - that’s nerve wracking. 

He swings his heavy legs off from his bed, and totters into the living room, glasses dangling between his fingers. 

Viktor is sprawled on his couch, the threadbare throw from his house laid haphazardly across his chest. He’s snoring quietly, an arm dangling, reaching towards the floor. _Like this, he looks a bit like a teenager_ , Yuuri thinks, fumbling with his glasses. Viktor is long limbed, and for all that he is graceful, like this, he looks almost gangly. He’s certainly far too large for Yuuri’s small couch. It’s more of a loveseat than anything, really, a gift from Minako after he’d first been accepted for an apprenticeship at the Bolshoi years ago. 

It’s pale gray, even more so than it originally was, after being bleaching from years of the sun’s rays beating down on it, and Yuuri’s built his entire apartment around it. He reaches down, fingers fluttering hesitantly above the mess Viktor’s hair has worked itself into, before drawing the fuzzy black throw further up around Viktor. 

Yuuri cooks breakfast for two. He spreads olive oil onto one of his old pans, setting it atop the stove. The smell of cooking eggs doesn’t wake Viktor up - Yuuri checks - but he scrambles them, trying to mimic the way his mother had made them when he was a child.

A splash of orange juice to make it a little sweet. Less salt than the recipe would call for - to make sure the eggs stayed fluffy. Whisk it for a minute and a half, to make it a little frothier. Add a small amount of ketchup to the eggs before cooking them to add more flavor. 

Yuuri stirs the eggs with a fork, and takes the pan off of the stove. He takes the bread from his cabinet and toasts it, before piling a little bit of the egg onto it. 

It doesn’t taste like his mother’s cooking. Something is still missing - but it tastes decent. Nobody will die from food poisoning from eating this, he supposes.

Yuuri eats half of his portion, before setting a paper towel over the remaining scrambled eggs, and leaving to get dressed. Late night practice or not, he has a rehearsal to make. 

He’s waiting for the Metro, music mellow in his ears, before he wonders if anyone had fed Viktor’s dog last night. 

Yuuri rests his cheek against the palm of his hand, and watches the world blur. The music plays on, soft and mellow, and the question plagues him all the way to the studio. 

_Has anyone fed Makkachin?_

* * *

It’s pleasantly warm - surprisingly so - for a winter day. Sunlight splashes through the floor-length windows, and Euphie stretches at the barre. Yuuri isn’t here - but it’s not like she expects him to be. Sure, she’d sent Viktor to the studios to _try_ and pry Yuuri away from his practicing, but it wasn’t like she expected him to succeed. 

She nearly groans as her back pops. Cuddling Mila had been awesome, but not very good for her back. Euphie rolls her shoulders back, and wincing in tandem with the unholy sounds from the movement. 

Yuuri stumbles through the door, hurriedly plucking his earbuds out, flat shoes already half on by the time he sets himself down by her. 

“What are you _doing_ here?” Euphie hisses, nose buried in her knee. “You look like death. Go back to sleep, Yuuri.” 

“I can’t.” There’s a harsh note in his voice, wholly dissonant with the soft spoken person Yuuri generally is. He slides into a straddle, reaching forwards, until his chest is flush with the hardwood. Yuuri’s hair is tied into a short ponytail that bobs with his breath, and he clicks his tongue quietly. “They’re announcing roles today, and I have to workshop my _Prix Benoise_ piece with _Mme._ Baranovskaya. I’ve missed too much practice,” he mutters. 

Euphie settles into a butterfly, catching her toes in a vice grip. “That’s bullshit,” she says, and it’s too quiet for anyone else to hear, but she knows that it’s always been her quiet fury that makes her scary. “You’ve been working harder than anyone else, Yuuri. You’ve only been missing practice because Mme. Baranovskaya wanted you to coach Yurio.” She hopes that the disdain drips from every word. She hopes that he knows that she thinks he’s being ridiculous. 

Yuuri doesn’t answer her, and vindictively, Euphie hopes that he really does collapse. He could use a hard lesson to teach him how far to push. 

She raises her leg up onto the barre, and pushes her bangs out from her face. Yuuri still doesn’t answer. 

_Fine._ It’s not like this is going to be her problem in the end, anyways.

* * *

Viktor wakes up late for once. He blinks sleep from his eyes and takes a moment to look around the apartment. It takes a moment for him to recognize that this is Yuuri’s apartment, and that he’s asleep on Yuuri’s small, well loved couch. 

The entire apartment is cozy. Lived in as well, in a way that Viktor’s own apartment is not. The carpet is worn in specific places - right in front of the couch, in a lopsided circle close to the door - and there are strips of pictures pinned to a small cork board. Gently pushing the fleece blanket off of him, Viktor pads over to the cork board, and leans over to look at the photos. 

The newest one is of Yuuri and Euphie - probably from the very same day that the instagram photo he’d seen was taken. They both have red cheeks and noses, and Euphie has stolen Yuuri’s glasses for half of the photos. Yuuri is beaming brilliantly in all of them. 

The oldest one seems to date back to middle school - although Viktor doesn’t really know. He can only assume that from the iconic sailor uniform the girl in the photo is wearing. Yuuri is sandwiched between her and another boy, and they are all smiling. Yuuri is blushing profusely in more than half of them, and in the last one, the other boy has an arm looped around him. They’re all so _young,_ and Viktor marvels at how different the two Yuuris seem. 

The final photo strip is pinned up alongside a note written in characters Viktor can neither read, nor recognize. They almost look like cramped English cursive, but Viktor doesn’t recognize any of the letters. Yuuri is standing besides a dark skinned boy. They might be in high school, or they might be older than that, but their poses are mostly ridiculous imitations of famous movie moments. The final scene from the _Breakfast Club_ is there, the other boy pumping his fist in the air comically, as Yuuri doubles down laughing. They pose as _Charlie’s Angels_ , the other boy winking saucily at the camera as the shot is taken. Viktor fingers the edge of the photo strip gently. All these Yuuris are full of life and laughter, and fatigue doesn’t weigh their shoulders down, and bruise dark bags have not yet formed beneath their eyes. 

Viktor wonders what happened. 

But that’s just it - _he doesn’t know._ For all that is seems longer than that, Viktor has only known Yuuri for a month. Small, stolen moments of each other, tentative touches, and smiles from afar - they aren’t intertwined. They’re friends, but Viktor knows that sooner or later, something is going to give, because it’s _not enough._ And Viktor wants to know Yuuri. He wants to know what makes him smile, what foods he loves, and what kind of music he loves. He wants to know why Yuuri is so _tired_ now, and why there are days where it seems that Yuuri is millions of miles away. 

Shaking his head, Viktor peels himself away from the photos, and turns to the kitchen. 

There, on the countertop, covered by a paper towel is a plate of eggs and toast. Yuuri’s curling handwriting is dark purple against the small yellow sticky note taped to the front of the plate. 

_Viktor,_

_I have early rehearsal today. I hope you like eggs and toast - I haven’t been grocery shopping yet. Thank you for taking me home._

_\- Yuuri_

The eggs are cold, but the toast is still crunchy. Viktor sets the toast onto the counter, and reheats the eggs. He fingers the sticky note. 

He wonders if there’s something else Yuuri had wanted to say. 

(The eggs are good, and they don’t remind Viktor of anything, but he has a small feeling that he’ll think of Yuuri the next time he eats eggs.)

* * *

Yuuri dances like he’s dying. He dances with an abandon and desperation that Lilia hasn’t seen since he was just starting with her, and cripplingly insecure, despite several USAIBC golds underneath his belt. He falls into his steps, tears into his turns, and when he leaps across the sunlit studio, the sound his pointe shoes make when they hit the floor is like the final toll of a funeral bell. 

The music comes to an end, and he stops, stepping off _en pointe._ Sweat beads along his hairline, and tracks rivers down his cheeks. His chest rises and falls, and a red flush has spread across his cheeks. 

Lilia shuts the music off with a click of the remote, and the only noise in the studio becomes the sound of her heels clicking against the hardwood, and Yuuri’s breathing. 

She has coached so many - _prima ballerinas_ and _premier danseurs_ alike - but none of them have ever danced as Yuuri Katsuki does. Dancers give themselves up to dance, but sometimes, it feels as if Yuuri has nothing _but_ dance. It’s ridiculous, of course, what with how he and the DuBois girl are nigh inseparable, and of course, she _sees_ how he and Viktor look at each other. She’s old, and she no longer has a husband, but that does not make her blind. 

“You’ve come so far,” Lilia says, brushing his too-long bangs out from his face. “I am proud, Yuuri. Now, come.” She spreads her arms out to the studio. “Show me that again.” 

Yuuri smiles, a small, brilliant (tired) thing, and rises _en pointe_ once more.

* * *

“Hey.” Euphie throws herself onto the floor beside him, and although she doesn’t meet his eyes, Yuuri knows that she’s speaking to him. “The parts for _Giselle_ are up.” She takes a drink from her water bottle. 

“Oh.” It hurts a little, to speak. “Will I get trampled if I try and go see?” 

Euphie gnaws at the rim of her water bottle. “Probably not. You’ve been in here for most of the lunch break, dumbass. The hordes have long since left.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “What _have_ you been doing in here?” 

Yuuri blinks. The past half hour is mostly a watercolored blur, and he’s half certain that he’s been stretching the entire time. It would explain the slight burn in his thighs. “Stretching?” 

“You don’t sound so certain,” Euphie quips, standing up with a soft huff. “Let’s go.” She holds out a hand to him, and hoists him to his feet. “Ugh. It’s hard to be mad at you when you look so sad.” 

He quirks his lips at her, and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t look sad.” 

Euphie snorts, rolling her eyes. She tosses her loose hair over her shoulder, and grins as it smacks Yuuri in the dead center of his face. “You _do_. Now, come on. I want to see your reaction to the roles.” 

“It can’t be that bad,” Yuuri murmurs, following her to the bulletin board. “I doubt they’re going to cast me in anything large, what with the _Prix Benoise_ coming up so soon.” 

She tilts his head up. “You were saying?” 

There, besides his name, reads **_Hilarion,_** in bold letters. 

“Told you.” 

Yuuri lets out a breath. “You sure did.” 

(Is this the breaking point? Yuuri doesn’t know. But it feels like _too much_ now. And even as he smiles at Euphie, talking quietly with her as they pass by the cafeteria, it feels as if he can’t breathe. Is this his breaking point? _No._ Yuuri licks his lips. The raw parts burn as he does, and it grounds him in a way not even Euphie can right now. 

He can’t let this be his breaking point. He’s _so close._ )

* * *

_Fondues_ are a normal part of practice - hell as they are, they aren’t really that tiring anymore. And yet, Euphie whips her head around as some small voice in her head screams _something is wrong, something is wrong_ at the top of its lungs. 

Yuuri is falling. He’s _falling out of a fondue._ His face is pallid, paler than normal - because _God,_ it was like he’d never seen a ray of sun in his goddamned _life_ , the boy was so pale - and his form is crumpling. He’s let go of the barre, and he’s falling. 

Euphie tries to scream, but no noise makes it out of her lungs.

_Always, always pushing for more. Fucking Yuuri,_ she thinks, stepping out of a fondue to lunge for Yuuri as he crumples. _You’re so greedy._

One of the other girls has begun to scream. _Shut up,_ Euphie wants to say. _Shut up, shut up, shut up! What is your screaming going to do? If you have time to scream, then call an ambulance!_

Yuuri is falling, and the world feels like it is slowing around them, moving in slow motion. Sound is nothing, watery and muted, and all that Euphie can see is _Yuuri,_ eyes wide open and unseeing, grasping for something that is not there, _falling_ fast and hard. 

She catches him in her arms, cradling him close. _He’s so_ light, she marvels, and curls herself around him, as if to try and protect him from something that isn’t there. Yuuri is pale and his chest is barely rising and falling, and Euphie wants to know how she could have let it get this far. 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she says, voice muffled against his hair. “You goddamned idiot, pushing yourself hard enough that a simple _fondue_ is enough to make you faint.” 

“Euphie.” Malee is behind her, voice soft and pleasant. Anya hovers a few feet away, brows knit together with worry. “Euphie, we need to get him to a hospital. Can you help me carry him down to the sitting space, so we can get him into a car?” 

“I can carry him myself,” she snaps, leaning away from the prima’s touch. “Just. Find a car, and I can get him to it.” 

Malee smiles, and it’s tight, pulling at the corners of her eyes, pinching the soft lines of her lips. It’s such an odd expression to see on Malee, who is unflappably pleasant. It’s almost humanizing, and the thought is bittersweet. A little humbling too. “Alright. I’ll go find _Msr._ Starkov, and see if he has his car.” 

She walks away, and the sound of her pointe shoes against hardwood flooring rings out like an echo. Euphie brings Yuuri tighter to her, and resolves to think of how loudly she’s going to yell at him when he wakes up. 

“Dumbass,” she mutters, hauling herself to her feet. The word is almost tragically fond to her ears.

* * *

**euphiemisms:** Viktor. 

**euphiemisms: ******Viktor, answer the phone, or I swear to G-d I will run over to the ice rink and kick your ass myself.

**vitya:** ????

**vitya:** aren’t you in practice right now

**euphiemisms:** No, I’m on my way to the hospital. 

**vitya:** what? why? 

**vitya:** what happened? are you ok?

**euphiemisms:** I’m fine. Yuuri’s the one who needs medical attention. 

**vitya:** what? 

**euphiemisms:** Exhaustion. Do you want me to msg you the hospital address

**vitya:** yes

**euphiemisms:** Prospekt Bolshoy V.O., 51, Sankt-Petersburg

**vitya:** give me ten 

**euphiemisms:** Don’t get into a car accident.

* * *

Viktor isn’t stupid enough to get into a car accident. He hauls ass out of the Ice Palace as fast as possible - and even though Yuri is yelling bloody murder behind him, _it doesn’t matter_ \- but even as he starts his car with shaky hands, he takes a moment to breathe once a light turns red. 

The radio is deafening in the quiet. It’s just soft acoustic music, but accompanied with the roaring in Viktor’s ears, it’s enough to drive him nearly insane. 

He turns the radio off. 

_Yuuri’s in the hospital. Yuuri’s in the hospital._

Those words bounce and echo around in his mind, like bouncy balls in a cage, and Viktor’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. _In the hospital._ Viktor remembers being in the hospital once, right after his last season competing in Juniors. He remembers Aunt Evgeniya bursting into the too white room, her face pale, her normally immaculate hair a mess, flying around her face in untamed curls. He remembers the smear of eyeshadow - pale bronze, glittering faintly underneath the light - that dragged a line down the side of her face. 

Viktor presses a little harder on the gas. He doesn’t like to think about how desperate she had looked. He doesn’t like to think about how Aunt Evgeniya had stumbled on her way over to him, and how she had held his hands so tightly in her own that she had left small, purpling bruises forming where her hands had been. 

The car screeches into a turn. Viktor wrenches the wheel angrily, and slams down the brake as a light turns red. He remembers his mother, in the hospital, weeks before her death. How sterile everything had smelled. How she didn’t smell like the perfume she’d always worn, even when it was just the two of them. How the color seemed to have been leached from her cheeks, how her fingers were ice cold to the touch. 

The Pirogov Clinic looms above him. It’s brown brick, and surrounded by what would be greenery, had it not been winter. Several cars are parked in a nearby lot, and Viktor slowly comes to a stop. 

He takes a deep breath. Rests his head against the dash console, and breathes again. 

He feels the panic begin to fold a little, going back into that box in the corner of his mind. While the image of Yuuri, pale and wasting away in a hospital bed is scary enough, that, in itself is a worse case scenario. He needs to stay positive. Yuuri will be alright. 

(In the end, however, it all comes down to hope. Viktor doesn’t know why Yuuri is in the hospital - he can only hope it isn’t something life threatening. He can only hope that it isn’t career ending. 

After all, dancers, figure skaters - their careers were all so short and uncertain. A small time in the sun, before either injury or age spirited them away.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glossary:
> 
> _fondue_ : an abbreviation for _battement fondu,_ a lowering of the body made by bending the knee of the supporting leg, the working leg extending out _à terre_ or in the air.
> 
> uhhhhhhhh yeah! this wasn't my favorite chapter to write, but it's a necessary evil. i desperately wish i could make this longer, but whenever i did try to make it longer, it really just didn't flow right. so. sorry. on another note, _pirogov clinic_ is actually a real clinic in saint petersburg, so yes! i'm not just making up names. 
> 
> if you'd like a run down of the timeline (because i did screw with it and rearrange it for continuity's sake) message me on my [tumblr](starbxrn.tumblr.com)! (i'm also taking yoi fic prompts too so maybe send me one?) 
> 
> aaaand, drumroll - fic voting! i want to start on a new fic for yoi, so i've made a tiny survey, which you can find [**here.**](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdWPQOi8GLik5YFaLTTifo2nKabRL9F0vUOnwdUkYBFKM0-oA/viewform) pas de deux is not over yet (if any of you are worried) and i think we're going up until the prix benoise, and i'll probably end there. the epilogue is going to be at yurio's gpf, so yes! i can now say that i have all of pas de deux chapters planned out. (how exciting!) but, because of that, starting chapter ten, i'll probably begin posting another story. all the choices have enough plot and character interactions fleshed out, that i can feasibly begin to write them in time for chapter ten, but i'd like to know your opinions on what you'd like to see! descriptions for each fic can be found [**here**](http://starbxrn.tumblr.com/post/156656877313/fic-voting) on my tumblr.
> 
> so. um. please go vote! it would really mean a lot to me. 
> 
> also! i'll be posting updates on pdd chapters + general shenanigans relating to my fics and stuff on my tumblr too. i use the tag **pdd update** if you're actually interested. 
> 
> and, as always, comments and kudos are really, really appreciated! it really does make my day.


	8. second movement: a lullaby for winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w OW!!!!!this should have been out in what,,,fuckin february,,,,but i'm _kind of_ a human disaster and thus. it is march. anyways!!!! no glaring trigger warnings for this chapter (at last??i think,,) but we're also (probably) out of the depressing, angsty, angsty stuff. more relationship building + healing. the quiet kind, at least. 
> 
> at the end of the chapter, im announcing the winner of the story poll,,so look forwards to that. 
> 
> no chapter song, unless i think of one later
> 
> enjoy!

Yuuri dreams of home - of _Hasetsu_ , warm in the summer, not eternally stuck in the winter, as it seems Saint Petersburg often is. It’s a murky sort of dream, cloudy and uncertain, and Yuuri views the seagulls as they fly above the sea. Everything seems...dull. Grey. The world is painted with a kind of clinical blandness that Yuuri knows is really only necessary for science labs, or a police autopsy. (the result of too many american cop shows, he supposes.)

The sea is muted. The crash and rush of the waves ebbing and breaking against the sandy shores is nothing more than a dull roar in Yuuri’s ears, and the cries of the gulls circling above (rather like vultures, yuuri notes) far surpass the sea. Another oddity in this dream. Summer where there should be snow, and gull cries where the sea’s homegrown tongue should be. 

He tucks his knees just beneath his chin, and tilts his head up to bask in the sunlight, rays warming his face. The air smells of salt and something floral, and Yuuri feels at home, for all that this dream gets wrong. 

(yet, as he closes his eyes, it’s the small things that pervert the dream. a feeling twists and churns in his gut, and yuuri knows that this isn’t home. the gulls have never called louder than the sea in hasetsu, and it is not summer in this part of the world. yuuri does not live in his little room in the back of the _onsen_ anymore, the one with the posters from video games, and stray threads from the last time he tried to stitch up his pointe shoes. rather, a part of home has become the slate gray walls of the bathroom in his small apartment, and the faded blue love seat in his small living room. home is in the ballet studio, with the scent of satin and hardwood, and the sound of pointe shoes as they hit the floor. and recently, and oddly enough, home has become the skating rink, with its ever constant chill, and mila and yuri yelling, even at the asscrack of dawn.) 

Yuuri opens his eyes, and traces meaningless patterns in the sand. It’s sad, he thinks, to realize that Hasetsu is not fully his home anymore.

* * *

Viktor has been sitting outside of Yuuri’s room for five minutes, but it really does feel like much, _much_ longer. He’s checked his phone three times - and there are four missed calls. He’s hung up on Yakov every time the old man has tried to call.

“He’s just collapsed. He’s not _dead,_ you know.” Euphie collapses into the chair next to Viktor, pushing wet blonde bangs out from her eyes. Dimly, Viktor realizes that this would be the first time he’s ever seen her with her hair down - something Yuuri had made out to be a truly momentous occasion, but she just looks tired now. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion, and droplets of water are dripping from her bangs. 

Viktor wrings his hands around his phone, and stares blankly at it as it begins to vibrate again. The blurry shot Viktor had taken of Yakov (the old man is asleep in the stands of the rink, trademark hat resting on his chest. the photo is blurry, because viktor had taken it while running. yakov’s bald spot is especially shiny in the photo, and normally, viktor laughs whenever the photo pops up on his screen. but now, laughter seems a little too hard to muster.) pops up with the caller ID, and he looks at it for a few seconds more. 

“You should answer the phone,” Euphie says, slowly gathering her hair back into an immaculate bun. “I’m sure he’s worried.” She makes shooing motions with a free hand. “Go on, take a walk. Clear your head, and talk to your coach. I promise I’ll call you if there are any urgent developments.” 

It’s not what Viktor wants to hear - he wants to hear the minute something changes, to hell with _urgent developments_ \- but the steel in Euphie’s voice, and the glint in her eyes tell him that listening to her is a far more favorable poison than what would come if he chooses not to. 

Viktor pushes himself out from the poorly cushioned plastic chair, and shakily slides his thumb across the screen of his phone. “It’s me.” 

_“Viktor! First you and then Yuri, what is going on? Where the hell are you?”_

“I’m at Pirogov Clinic.” 

_“Are you -”_ There’s a note of panic in Yakov’s voice, and it blends effortlessly with the concern. 

“It’s not me - it’s Yuuri. Katsuki. Lilia’s apprentice. He’s been hospitalized, and a friend called me down.” 

_“Viktor -”_

“Yakov, I’ll make sure that Yuri is back on the ice tomorrow, and we’ll make up for the hours lost -” There’s something lodged in Viktor’s throat, and it makes breathing almost impossible. But he needs Yakov to understand that he can’t just _leave_ Yuuri when he’s like this. It’s impossible. Unthinkable. 

_“Viktor.”_ Yakov interrupts him, and Viktor stops. He hasn’t heard Yakov speak this softly to him since he was half hiding behind Aunt Evgeniya. _“It’s fine. I’m not about to yell at you for running out on practice over a hospitalized friend. If it were something else, yes. But I expect both you and Yuri at the rink an hour early tomorrow.”_

“Got it.” He tries to pretend that he isn’t world endingly relieved, but by the magnitude of the sigh that Yakov lets out, Viktor knows that it’s a failure on his part. “Thank you, Yakov.” 

_“Of course, Viktor. But Yuri won’t thank me tomorrow.”_ The old man hangs up, and Viktor is left clutching his phone as if it were a lifeline in raging waters. 

He turns on his heel, and heads back into the clinic.

* * *

_Adults are stupid,_ Yuri thinks, storming into the lobby of the clinic. _What the fuck’s so great about being_ mature _if it means you’re just going to be a fucking fool and work yourself ‘till you collapse? Fucking shitty ass fuck._

“Yuri, over here.” In the corner of his eye, Yuri spots Euphie, in all her dance-geared glory. Her hair is in an immaculate bun, and the wrap-skirt-thing is devoid of any wrinkles. But he squints a little at her, and raises an eyebrow. She’s frazzled. Her cheeks are red, and her hair is damp on the top. The skin underneath her eyes is puffy and swollen - and Yuri scowls. She’s been crying. 

(sure, yuri’s a child, but that doesn’t mean he’s fucking _stupid._ or unobservant.) 

He meets her halfway, ever the perfect picture of a sullen teenager, but the first words out of his mouth are - “Is he alright?” 

Euphie lets out a breath. “He’s going to be fine,” she admits. “No permanent damage, no injury from the fall. But we’re going to have to keep an eye on him. And the doctor recommended that he get sent in for a psych eval. Just in case.” She rubs a hand down her face. “This is a mess.” 

“You don’t say,” Yuri replies, kicking into the air. “But he’s...going to wake up soon, right?” 

“Yeah,” Euphie murmurs, reaching over to muss up Yuri’s hair. “Yeah, he’s going to wake up soon. Why, are you _concerned?_ Mister Edgy Teenager?” Her tone turns lilting, and a teasing grin overtakes her melancholy look. 

Yuri hisses as Euphie presses her knuckles into his head, messing up his hair. Her free arm is looped loosely around his neck, holding him in place, even as he struggles and shouts at her to let go. 

“You’re such a _fucking bitch!_ You and your - _fuck_ \- goddamn _girlfriend!_ You’re both _fucking_ horrible! _Fuck!_ ” 

(it’s a bit of relief to see that euphie isn’t so solemn right now. yuri will swear until his grave that he doesn’t give a _damn_ about it, but it really is more reassuring when she laughs. it’s a bit like being home with his grandfather - warm in a way that goes far, _far_ beyond the physical kind.)

* * *

Yuuri blinks - or, tries to. It feels as if his eyes are being weighed down, each eyelid a solid thousand pounds. The world is too white, and smells of antiseptic. After several years of waking up to the scent of his air freshener, an off white, popcorn ceiling, and the sound of the early morning commute, the overwhelming stagnancy of this room is shocking. 

He tries to call for someone - a nurse, whoever came with him here - but all that comes out is a dry wheeze. Yuuri licks his lips nervously. It feels like he’s swallowed a mouthful of ashes. 

Yuuri closes his eyes, and _breathes._ Takes a good look at his surroundings once it feels like he isn’t about to teeter into a full blown panic. The hospital room is a pure white, and there’s only one window in the entire room, and flimsy sheer curtains fail to keep the sun out of the already blinding room. 

_In and out, in and out, repeat._ Yuuri lets himself breathe, lets the weak St. Petersburg sunlight run its spindly fingers down the lines of his face with feather light touches. It is decidedly horrible that he’d managed to get wrapped up in himself - to the point where he’d collapsed - but Yuuri doesn’t want to think about that. He wants to close his eyes and pretend that the world isn’t urgent and pressing, and pretend that his anxiety medication isn’t going to need a solid topping off after how much he’s gotten into the stash of prescription pills in his medicine cabinet. 

His fingers skim over the call button, and Yuuri takes in another breath of antiseptic scented air.

* * *

Viktor is standing in front of Yuuri’s apartment door three days later. 

_“He needs space,”_ Euphie had said. _“Give him space. And time. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”_

He wants to ask someone if three days is enough time. It’s Wednesday, and the rink feels a little empty without Yuuri’s steadfast presence rinkside, calling out pointers and dragging Yuri off to the dance studio in the basement. 

Viktor doesn’t know if three days is enough time to be considered giving someone space. He wants to ask someone - but who can he ask? Georgi is hopeless with romance, (though not for lack of trying) Mila is dating Euphie, (and viktor isn’t sure he wants to open _that_ can of worms) and Yuri is a child. Not to mention that Yakov is _divorced._ Viktor isn’t sure that any advice coming out of Yakov’s mouth is something inherently good for romance. 

Viktor sighs. He needs an adult. (or, at the very least, one who is better at being an adult than he is.) Worrying his lower lip, Viktor’s knuckles hover just above the wood of the door. _Don’t chicken out now, Vitya!_ He can practically _hear_ Mila shouting in his mind, and that imaginary Mila in his mind tamps down the uncertainty and worry clouding his thoughts. 

He knocks on the door, then promptly shoves his hands back into his pockets. _Real mature,_ he thinks to himself. _Definitely not acting like a high schooler. Right._

The door opens a crack at first, and foggy glasses lenses are all Viktor can see. It’s a little funny - the way it reflects the light - but Yuuri makes a strangled sound from behind the door, and soon, the sound of bolts and locks being fumbled with fills the silence. 

“Viktor,” Yuuri says. It sounds a little breathless. This sends off a slew of blaring alarms in Viktor’s head - _is he still tired? fuck, did i just wake him up? shit, shit, way to go Nikiforov, fuck_ \- and it shows on his face. Yuuri blinks, and steps to the side. “Do you...want to come inside?” 

Viktor smiles weakly and nods. “That would be nice,” he croaks, and it’s so, so damningly awkward. 

Yuuri sweeps the door open more, and leads Viktor in. _He looks a little better rested,_ Viktor notes, _if not a little disheveled._ He doesn’t think he’s ever really seen Yuuri in anything but dance wear, and immaculately put together - if not a little drab - outfits. But Yuuri is shuffling around his apartment in a well-worn pair of grey sweatpants, and a navy pullover. His hair in loose, not tied back in a small ponytail, and it falls to his shoulders, sleek and soft in a way that meticulous hair care could only hope to imitate. 

“Oh - ah, you can sit down, if you’d like.” Yuuri begins to clear the coffee table in front of the loveseat, carefully stacking paperback novels and a legal pad of lined paper. It’s all in Japanese, of course, but Viktor suspects that the writing on the lined paper is likely new plans for Yuri’s free skate, or more things for Yuuri’s own _Prix de la Benoise_ piece. It’s such a _Yuuri_ thing to do. 

“Thank you,” Viktor says, setting his backpack down. “Ah, I have something for you.” He roots through the contents of the backpack - scarf (dark, dark green, a little worn with time), thermos (long since empty, and the dregs of coffee that might linger at the very bottom of the thermos are likely glacial by now), ice skates in a drawstring shoe bag - and pulls out a wrinkled brown paper bag. “Euphie, she ah, mentioned that you liked loose leaf teas.” 

Cocking his head, Yuuri takes the bag from Viktor. “Oh,” he mutters, removing the tin. The writing is in kanji - with Cyrillic scribbled underneath - and Yuuri traces the raised lettering with blithe fingers. “Where did you _find_ this?” He removes the lid with a soft _pop,_ shaking the powdered leaves inside, and breathing in the sharp scent of matcha. “This is the good kind,” Yuuri says offhandedly, gently setting the tin of matcha powder down on the coffee table. It really is though - it isn’t something he’s just saying to thank Viktor. The matcha powder smells like the stuff he remembers his mother steeping to make tea for him and Mari when they were sick. This is the kind of tea that she would call a supplier for. Not the Trader Joe’s knockoffs he’d used to stave off his tea-borne cravings in Detroit. 

Viktor runs a hand through his hair, and a little bit of pink speckles itself over his cheeks. “Ah. There’s a tea shop nearby here. I passed by it on my way over and I, well,” he gestures helplessly at the tin of tea that Yuuri is cradling gingerly in his hands. Viktor clears his throat awkwardly, and falls quiet. 

Yuuri smiles at him, something tentative and budding, and gathers the lid of the tin. “Would you like to try some? Of - of the tea,” Yuuri babbles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It might not be to your taste but, matcha seems to be pretty popular even out of Japan, so I thought that you might...like to try?” 

“Sure,” Viktor says, smiling. “Could I watch?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Yuuri waits for him to stand, before padding over to the kitchenette on socked feet. They pass by the corkboard of photobooth strips again, and Viktor spots, in the corner of his vision, a photo that might be of Yurio and Yuuri at the ballet studio beneath the rink. Yurio is scowling up at the camera as he is wont to do, teenaged anger and angst personified, legs spread out in a straddle split, toes stubbornly unpointed. Yuuri is smiling beside him, and the lines of his face are softer, if only in exchange for darker bags underneath his eyes. He’s nearly bent in half, chin propped up on his hands as his legs are splayed behind him in a near perfect straddle split. It’s been recently printed, and the edges of the photograph curl up slightly. 

Viktor fingers one curved corner, and wonders who had taken that photo. Maybe it was Lilia.

* * *

Yuuri lets himself get lost in making tea. It’s not an unfamiliar process, and Yuuri remembers the rhythm of the process, if only because it had made itself a niche in his mind after years upon years of watching his mother make tea in the kitchen of their _onsen._ It gives him no time to think, nor time to be anxious or nervous. 

His hands still shake when he takes the kettle out from the high cabinets, (the ones that he can’t reach without climbing onto the countertop like a _child._ ) and he nearly cuts himself on a stray wire when he roots through one of the miscellaneous drawers in the kitchen, looking for the _damn_ sieve. _It has,_ Yuuri resolutely tells himself, _absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Viktor is in my apartment, watching me. Nothing._

But nothing catches on fire, (thankfully - he’s not _phichit,_ who wasn’t allowed to set foot in their shared kitchen once after the _macaroni fiasco._ ) and at the end of it all, there are two mismatched mugs of piping tea on the small, square table in his kitchen. Viktor smiles at the sight of it, heart shaped and pink lipped as always, and picks the mug up as if it might break into shards of ceramic if he holds it the wrong way. Yuuri wants to laugh at the sight of it - _how cute,_ Mom would say, - but chooses to stifle his amusement in aromatic steam, and the warm rim of his mug. 

The sun is shining through his bare windows, spilling warm and golden into the small confines of his apartment, and Yuuri takes in another deep breath of steam, savoring the nostalgic scent. He wiggles his toes in the thick cotton of his socks, and takes a small drink from his chipped mug. Beside him, Viktor is bathed in sunlight, and it turns his cold silver to molten gold, glowing and alive in the small kitchen of his dinky apartment, slender, piano-fingered hands clasped around the cat-printed mug without the handle that Mari had given him as a gag years and years ago. 

Yuuri takes another drink of matcha, closes his eyes, and sighs quietly. Viktor inches closer, and tentatively, so does Yuuri. They close the distance in increments, measured in the space between breaths, and the flutter of a blink, until Viktor is a line of warmth, tracing the shape of Yuuri’s side, and his breaths ruffle the rebellious hairs atop Yuuri’s head. 

Outside is butter and gold, a city awake, bathed in sunlight. Yuuri stares out at Saint Petersburg with Viktor, the other man’s warmth slowly seeping into his bones. He takes a sip of the tea, letting out a breath as is scalds his tongue, and wiggles his toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aand the winner of the poll was (and it was, actually fairly close) the mafia au!!! ya'll are just,,,gluttons for angst. interesting. 
> 
> anyways, i hope you guys enjoyed this! if you did, leave me a comment, or a kudos. + pls let me know if there are any glaring errors, or of any constructive criticism. that's always appreciated. 
> 
> until next time

**Author's Note:**

>  _prima_ : lead female dancer - will most likely be the best in her company  
>  _premier danseur_ : lead male dancer in a company  
>  _en pointe_ : on pointe; or on the tips of the toes  
>  _plié_ : a smooth and continuous bending of the knees outward with the upper body held upright  
>  _glissade_ : quite literally, to glide; a traveling step starting in fifth position from a _demi-plié_  
>  _balancé_ : a rocking sequence of three steps - down, up, down - done in three counts  
>  _demi-chassé_ : a slide forward, backward, or sideways with both legs bent, then springing into the air with legs straight and together - since this is a _demi-chassé_ , the movement is much smaller than a full _chassé_  
>  _grande jeté_ : a long horizontal jump, starting from one leg and landing on the other  
>  _piqué turn_ : a traveling turn executed by the leg stepping out onto an _en pointe_ or _demi-pointe_ foot becoming the supporting leg while the working leg moves from _plié_ to _retiré derrière_  
>  _fouetté_ : a move where a quick pivot on the supporting leg changes the orientation of the body and the working leg 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this!! i did dance ballet for eleven years, so i hope everything is accurate. if one of the characters is ooc, please let me know; i want to be able to rectify it. comments and kudos would be greatly appreciated!
> 
> find me on my [tumblr](starbxrn.tumblr.com)!


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